


Seven of Swords

by iluv2eat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Archaeology, Draco is Lara Croft, M/M, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Spies & Secret Agents, Spy Harry, mentions of the iraq and afghanistan war, tomb raiding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 60,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluv2eat/pseuds/iluv2eat
Summary: Draco Malfoy, former field archaeologist and ex-boyfriend of Harry Potter, is sucked into the shadowy world of antiquities smuggling when he is recruited by British Intelligence to recover the lost Shield of Achilles, a mythical relic that promises untold power. Not only is he contending with a secret society hell-bent on obtaining the object for its own nefarious goals, Draco also needs to navigate his own broken heart as he is forced to work together with a changed Harry.Draco is in a desperate race for an object more fiction than fact, pitted against ruthless enemies — and his own demons.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as the sequel for [Shadows Spilt From Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688997/chapters/65099452) but took a life of its own as an independent story. But I feel this is still very much a sequel in spirit (especially given that I took a lot of ideas articulated in that story). But I wanted to try an AU set in the modern world, since I actually really dislike writing magic duels. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, UK, 2003:

“You can’t serious believe this tripe, do you?” Draco asked Harry incredulously.

Harry grinned at Draco. “What’s the matter, Malfoy? Scared?”

Draco gave him a scornful look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m not scared of an old fraud with a pack of cards.” He stared at the rusty caravan with the hand-painted sign marking it as the property of “Madam Rosa, fortune-teller.”

“Oh, come on, Draco, don’t be such a skeptic. Besides, it’ll be fun. Don’t you want to know what the future holds for you?”

“Let me guess: a tall dark stranger awaits me, with promises of passion and exotic adventure?” Draco snorted. “I think the tall dark stranger will be in for a rude shock when I make him help me do laundry.” He eyed Harry. “You should throw out your socks, by the way. They’re kind of disgusting.”

Harry made a face. “What do you mean? They’re fine. I bought them a month ago.”

“Oh. Well, they don’t look like it.” 

Neither of them had discussed the possibility of living together in the four months they had been dating, but in all this time, Harry had become less of a visitor and more of a fixture in Draco’s flat. Draco enjoyed it, despite his previously ingrained preference for solitude. His presence made the space seem … warmer, albeit messier. 

Draco never realized how much having Harry’s company balanced his life. His routine before Harry was staid, and Draco had to confess, lonely. Having someone else to share even the little goings-on of Draco’s day lit a smile on his face so often that Draco needed to remind himself to stop being so saccharine. But waking up to next to Harry every day cheered him more than having sunlight streaming through the window.

And Harry was fit – their sex was great. It more than made up for him leaving his socks all over the flat. Even now, it took all of Draco’s willpower to keep his hands off Harry: Draco loved running his fingers through Harry’s messy hair – tousled, Harry would insist – and pressing against the firm chest, the strong arms.

Harry seemed to catch a bit of Draco’s mood. “Behave,” he chided.

“Why? We’re on vacation.” Draco pouted. “What’s the point of having free time if we can’t enjoy?”

It was a much-needed break. Their relationship had gone from enmity with sexual tension simmering underneath to an uneasy arrangement of casual sex and unspoken feeling to – Draco supposed they were dating now. 

It was a long way from their public-school days when they couldn’t stand to be in the same room without sneers and insults. Then they encountered each other again in Iraq. Draco was with a group of British Museum archaeologists trying to track down looted artifacts from the Iraqi Museum in the aftermath of the American invasion. Harry had been the military detail assigned for their protection. Even now, the sight of Harry in fatigues stirred his desire – back then, it hit him like a train. Draco liked to tell himself it was a combination of the desert heat and enforced celibacy from long hours, but who was he kidding? Harry was attractive, a drink from an oasis in the middle of all that dust and danger. 

They had only returned a couple of days ago. Draco’s head was still reeling from the combination of the rapid change in surroundings – so much green! So cold! – and time zone. Not that he’d admit it. Malfoys were not so plebian as to suffer jetlag. 

Harry scratched his head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m still damn exhausted. Without the coffee, I’d be a collapsed heap right now.”

“It was your idea to come out here,” Draco pointed out. “In this place where there’s not even a half-decent hotel with proper room service.”

“Molly would kill us if we stayed at an inn instead of the Burrow,” Harry said with a laugh. “Besides, I can guarantee you her cooking is far better than anything they can serve.”

“Molly wants to kill me anyways,” Draco grumbled. There was no love lost between the Weasleys and Draco’s own family. They had been rivals for three generations now, though it was like a match between a lion and a sheep – no contest at all. 

“Be nice,” Harry chided. “You’re both important to me, you and the Weasleys. I want you both to get along.”

Draco let out a sigh. “I’m only doing this because you promised me good food.” He stared at his boyfriend. Harry still retained his roguish charm even out of uniform. In a plain pullover and jeans, he looked relaxed and at ease despite his earlier profession of being tired. Yet he still managed to cut a dashing figure; several of the festival attendees — including the old spinster who ran the tea shop where Draco and Harry had their lunch — watched him admiringly. 

They had a reason to: Harry was far different from the scrawny twig of a boy Draco had known at Hogwarts Independent School. Harry had filled out and he moved with a lean grace gained from his training as a Royal Marine. In marked contrast, Draco was pale and slender, his blond hair adding to his already considerable pallor. Not to mention Draco never felt at ease in rural settings, despite growing up in a country manor.  
Also, allergies. To prove this point, Draco sneezed, rather explosively, attracting the disapproving attention of the ones who had previously been lusting after his boyfriend. 

“Sorry,” he said, blinking hard. “I hate the countryside.”

“That sounded more like a bomb than any I’ve ever came across in the field,” Harry said lightly. Despite the tone of levity, Draco thought he saw a cloud flit across Harry’s face. 

“I’d hope not,” Draco said quickly, before Harry sunk into his memories. “I think our resident psychic here,” – Draco gestured at Madam Rosa’s caravan – “will come out screaming bloody murder if any untoward happens.”

“So you do admit she might have a gift,” Harry trumpeted, losing his shadowed look. Draco experienced a rush of frustration. Harry always refused to talk about what happened. Draco had attempted to open Harry up, both obliquely and with more direct methods. Harry evaded Draco’s efforts with equal dexterity, always managing to distract Draco with topic changes or sex. Draco always gave in – all too enthusiastically when Harry’s mouth was on him – but it bothered Draco that he couldn’t help Harry with something that weighted heavily on Harry’s mind. 

“Shall we go in?” Draco asked. There was no point in having this conversation right now. “I do want to know if the handsome dark stranger in my life will ever put away his socks.”

Harry laughed and raised the curtains for them to enter the caravan.

Inside was a stereotypical setting so cliched it could have been a movie set. Thick velvet curtains partitioned the sitting room from what Draco assumed to be Madam Rosa’s living quarters. A circular table sat in the middle, overlaid with a delicately embroidered tablecloth. A mirror stood in the corner. Draco took a look at himself and tried to rearrange his hair, mussed from the light spring wind.

“Your hair is fine,” Harry chuckled. His own shock of dark hair remained untamed as ever. 

Draco scowled. “Compared to yours, yes.” Draco had booked an appointment for Harry with Draco’s own stylist once – it was an exercise in futility. Not that Draco would admit it, but he rather liked Harry like this. Much better than buzz cut Harry had sported when Draco had first reencountered Harry. 

“Hello, my dears.” A woman peeked out of the curtain at them. Draco had expected someone similar to Professor Trelawney, the arts teacher at Hogwarts, all misty-voiced and draped in sequined shawls. To Draco’s relief, Madam Rosa looked no different from a bank manager, dressed in a simple pencil skirt and white blouse. “I usually do readings one on one. It’s much simpler that way.”

“Why?” She appeared normal enough in the room’s riot of colors, but a prickle of unease stirred when Draco thought of being alone with her. “Unable to size both of us up at the same time?” Draco knew that most fortune-tellers employed uncanny attention to detail, such as miniscule changes in body language, in lieu of actual psychic talent. 

“Draco,” Harry hissed. 

Madam Rosa laughed. “You’re a skeptic, I see. Well, I don’t claim to be Nostradamus, but a reading is highly personal, even among a couple such as you two. It’s also an opportunity for you to unburden yourself in private.” She gave the two of them an unreadable glance. “If you two insist, however, I can do a couple’s reading.”

“No, it’s alright,” Harry said. “I can wait outside. Draco here,” he gave Draco a wink, “can go first.”

Draco was about to object when Harry exited the caravan, leaving Draco alone with Madam Rosa. 

Draco wasn’t sure why, but he was irritated by the alacrity with which Harry left. There wasn’t anything wrong with a couple’s reading; Draco would be actually curious to find out where their relationship would go in the next few weeks. After all, Draco was due to begin his new job as a staff archaeologist with the British Museum, following what his superior termed ‘Malfoy’s bloody-minded focus on the work” displayed with his future colleagues when he was with them in Iraq. 

And Harry might get shipped off for another deployment.

Draco cordoned off those emotions, focusing on the lady now laying out her pack of Tarot with professional precision. 

“It’s alright to be nervous,” she said. “Most first-timers are.”

“How do you know it’s my first time?” Draco asked before he could stop himself. 

“Your skepticism and how you’ve been taking in every detail since you entered the room,” Madam Rosa said with a gentle smile. “But perhaps we should introduce ourselves first. I’m Madam Rosa, as you probably already know.”

“Draco.” They shook hands. Perhaps it was her demeanor, but Draco settled down somewhat. She reminded him of a psychiatrist, with her nonjudgmental openness. It was easier to think of her as such, in any case, as opposed to an actual fortune-teller.

“Now, what is it you would like to know?” she asked. “Any questions on careers? Love? Or perhaps a general reading would be for suitable. We’ll have half an hour for this session, unless you wish to prolong it.”

“Well, I’m a skeptic,” Draco said, lulled by her businesslike tone, “so I don’t think it really matters. And half an hour is fine; we have a dinner appointment soon.”

“Then probably a general reading.” Madam Rosa spread out the cards into a fan. “What do you know about the tarot?”

“Nothing. Well, except it’s from the 16th century and used for card games originally.”

Madam Rosa nodded. “Good. What I have here is the Rider-Waite deck, which is the most popular. There are seventy-eight cards, each with a picture, a narrative, and attendant symbolism.”

“Alright.” Maybe Draco should relax and give this a try. After all, it might be fun, and even illustrative. If Rorschach tests were useful, why couldn’t this be? They were both ink on paper. 

“Now the querent – that’s you – pick a card.”

Draco ran his hand over them. Despite his logic, Draco hesitated. He knew it was all nonsense, but his heart still thumped. It was a ridiculous reaction – there wasn’t any information that these cards could convey that would be useful. 

Yet his heart knew not what his head did. 

Draco took a deep breath and flipped a card over. It showed a man holding five swords slipping away from a tent guarded with two upright swords. 

Once again, an uncomfortable premonition nagged at him. The man on the card appeared to be sneaking away from the scene of the crime, like he had stolen those swords. A group of little figures on the left caught Draco’s attention. They were ready for a chase.

“The Seven of Swords,” Rosa said. It seemed ridiculous to keep calling her Madam Rosa, at least in Draco’s mind. “It signifies betrayal and deception. The sword is the suite of air, change, and intellect. Its meanings are usually double-edged, just as air can either be a zephyr or a gale.” 

Draco stiffened. 

“You might be trying to trick someone or doing something you shouldn’t be. Or, you could be the victim of someone else. It also means that you need to be strategic going forward. You can’t have it all, not matter how much you try. You need to put yourself first in order to overcome what obstacles you face.” She raised her head to Draco, examining him. “You don’t seem very fond of this card, which is understandable. But do you have any reasons for doubting or rejecting it?”

“Everything in my life is going fine,” Draco said tightly. “I’m in a happy relationship, I have a good job lined up, and what more can you ask for?” It was a rosy picture, and there was no dishonesty to it. He was happy with Harry, minor issues notwithstanding, and he was excited about his upcoming position. It would finally show Draco’s father that he was wrong, that Draco wasn’t wasting away his talents. 

“You can still be worried even if everything seems well enough,” Rosa said sagely, nodding with crone-like wisdom despite her relatively youthful years. “Is anything bothering you? Or that you think will derail your happiness?”

“What is this, a therapy session?”

“Well,” Rosa smiled, “I am also a licensed psychiatrist. I’m only doing this as a sideline. And because I enjoy it.”

Ah. That would explain how easily she managed to get Draco to drop his guard. Or at the very least, not walk out immediately.

“I’m happy,” Draco said finally. “There’s no reason not to be. It would be the height of ingratitude to be discontent with my lot right now.”

“But?” prompted Rosa. 

“I dunno,” Draco said, sinking back into his seat. The hard wood poked against his back. “It’s like everything is going too well after all the trouble I’ve had to get to where I am, you know? And I can’t deny everything in my life is going well. My father doesn’t approve of my choice of careers. Or my boyfriend.”

“That tall, dark, and handsome young man waiting outside?” Draco swore Rosa winked at him.

“Yes,” Draco said. “We’re happy, but neither side of our respective families approve, and – I don’t know – it’s all very new to me.” 

“I can understand about your families not approving.” Rosa gave a commiserating nod. “My parents weren’t exactly happy when I introduced them to my partner.”

“Well, it’s not exactly that. Harry’s an orphan, but the people we’re visiting – they’re the closest he has to a family – they don’t get along with my family. And my father – well – “

Draco stopped suddenly. This wasn’t a therapy session, no matter if Rosa was certified. And his natural reserve held him back from saying more.  
“Well, the Seven of Swords also is a sign that we need to find ways to find resolutions that puts ourselves first, that we need to be a little cunning in how we achieve our goals.”

“Cunning I can do.” Draco gave Rosa a slight smile. The house he had been Sorted in at school, Slytherin, had a reputation for underhanded tricks. It didn’t help that several of the Slytherin alumni went on to become famous – or infamous – for investment antics that brought the wrath of the Financial Services Authority on their heads. “But hopefully, it doesn’t come to that.”

“No. Honesty is generally – though not usually – the best way.” Rosa folded her hands in her lap. “Do you want to pick another card?”

Draco shook his head. “No, I think I’m going to step outside. Get some air. That one card was – well, I’m still not a believer, but –”

Rosa gave an understanding smile. “I understand. You can call your partner in, then. I’ll give what’s left of your allotted time to him.”

“Alright. I mean, he is paying for this.”

~~

Draco watched his breath form small puffs as he waited for Harry outside the caravan. Unlike Draco, Harry had no problem utilizing the entire session. 

Draco kicked at the pebbled path. Truth be told, that card, the Seven of Swords, had rocked him. Draco wasn’t sure why, but Rosa’s talk about betrayal and deception and cunning made his blood run cold. 

It wasn’t like Draco was a spy or an illegal artifact smuggler, though one of his colleagues from the Iraqi Museum had been caught for just that. What Rosa had said brought an intense flash of memory, of his father walking a cowled figure out of the study. Draco had wanted to speak to his father about the new appointment with the British Museum, but the expression on his father’s face stopped Draco in his footsteps. It went beyond the anger Lucius Malfoy usually displayed when interrupted. Though Draco had never once seen his father show fear, this time Draco had.

It had been swiftly replaced by Lucius’s typical mask of patrician arrogance. Lucius had hurriedly rushed the man out of the Manor before returning. 

Draco had forgotten about that episode, overshadowed as it were by the resultant row between him and his father about Draco’s ‘unsuitable job and even more unsuitable lifestyle with that degenerate Potter’. 

But now Draco wondered if what Draco saw was related to his father’s ensuing poor mood. Draco and Lucius often argued – it had become their natural state of existence by the time Draco had graduated from Oxford, but that night had been particularly brutal.

“All right?” Harry interrupted Draco’s ruminations, appearing out of the caravan with a step much lighter than with which he had entered. “Why did you finish so early?”

“Ah … you know. I don’t believe in all that bullocks. Rather not waste my time doing it.” Draco hoped the doctor-patient confidentiality extended to Rosa’s session with her fortune-seeking clients. He didn’t want to tell Harry that Draco had been too affected to continue.

“Hmm … well, nice of you to stick me with the bill too. You know, you’re remarkably penurious for someone with a trust fund.”

Draco eyed Harry. “Since when did you use words like ‘penurious’?”

Harry flashed a cheeky grin. “Must be from spending too much time with a certain stuffy grad student.”

Draco glared at Harry. “I know you must be talking about Granger, because you sure as hell are not talking about me.”

Harry laughed. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “Come on. Let’s get out of the cold and go to dinner.”

Draco suppressed the remark he had at the thought of going to the Burrow for dinner. Who named their home ‘the Burrow’? But even though Draco had not promised Harry to be nice, maybe he should try being more conciliatory with the Weasleys. If anything, it might bring him some karmic relief. 

~~

Mrs. Weasley greeted Harry with a warm hug and Draco with a cold word. It was still much better than the rest of the family, with their pursed lips and narrowed eyes. 

Draco didn’t fault them. Their families had known, and fought, for generations. Draco’s father habitually stymied the Weasley paterfamilias’s attempts to advance in the Civil Service, though from all accounts, Mr. Weasley was happy where he was. Draco in his more cynical moments thought his father was doing the Head Weasel a favor, consciously or not. 

It was Draco’s own interaction with Weasley children which provided a greater source of conflict. Ron Weasley had been the target of Draco’s schoolboy abuses and taunts – and incidentally also Harry’s best friend. The news that Harry had begun dating Draco had caused one of worst arguments between the two friends – it was the only time that Draco had opted to sleep on the couch in his own flat, not wanting to intrude on Harry’s obvious emotional turmoil. 

Draco remembered his actions with a flush of shame. Schoolboy antics, to be sure: immature and stupid, they still stung, and Draco understood now that even the smallest slight hurt disproportionately in childhood. Not to mention Harry’s other best friend, Hermione Granger, now completing her pupilage, was the subject of Draco’s worst misogynist insults. Perhaps Draco couldn’t stand a girl beating him for top marks, perhaps it was his father’s taunts that he couldn’t outsmart a girl, but it was still no excuse. But Draco was too proud to apologize now, and in any case, he had no idea how to broach the topic without opening another fresh wound. 

So he sat, in sullen silence, eating an undeniably excellent shepherd’s pie while the others either ignored or gave him dirty scowls. The only attempt that Harry had made to bring Draco into the conversation lapsed into stony silence that Granger, of all people, had to break up by changing the topic to some Serbian leader being charged with war crimes. 

“So, Harry, tell us about some of your plans,” the youngest Weasley, Ginny, asked. She and Ron rivaled each other in displaying the most dislike for Draco. Draco knew she had a crush on Harry, had even dated him briefly before Harry enlisted. It wasn’t Draco’s fault that she had been jilted. Blame the military. Hell, blame Tony Blair. “What do you plan to do now that you’re back? You should stay longer. We all miss you.”

Draco seethed. Though he agreed with her sentiment, it was clear from her tone that she did not include Draco in her statement. 

Mr. Weasley interrupted. 

“How’s your father, Draco?” he asked. 

Draco jerked up from his plate in surprise. “He’s fine. He’s his usual self.” Mr. Weasley never spoke to Draco directly before. Unlike the others, he treated Draco with an awkward distance that bordered on courtesy. He seemed more uncomfortable than anything else with Draco’s presence. 

“Oh. But what about the investigation? It’s a serious charge this time, and it isn’t something that his lawyers can brush away or his cronies can cover for him.”

Draco went cold. The mashed-up potatoes was ash in his mouth. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t talk to my dad like that –” Ron started hotly, but Mr. Weasley spoke over his son.

“The investigation into him laundering money for a criminal syndicate. It’s the talk of the entire government. I thought—” Mr. Weasley froze at Draco’s face. “You didn’t know.”  
Suddenly, Draco had an urge to vomit. His mouth was still full, cutting off air, choking him. The room shrank, the walls closed in. 

“What are you talking about?” he managed to get out. “What investigation? What money laundering?” 

It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination for Draco to believe his father was involved in illegal activity, but he always pictured those being harmless crimes, like tax evasion or maybe a little embezzlement. The charges Mr. Weasley named were serious, and what was worse, Mr. Weasley’s tone expressed a surprised sympathy that forced Draco to realize what Mr. Weasley said was true.

Draco waited for Mr. Weasley to elaborate. He wanted to shake the older man for every sordid detail, never mind that they had a rapt audience now. Draco couldn’t look at the others. He knew what they were feeling – glee barely covered by a mask of shock, the judgmental pity and condemnation accompanying the schadenfreude. 

But Mr. Weasley didn’t. He merely returned to nursing his tea, his brows furrowed. Draco caught Granger sneaking a glance at him, quickly averting her eyes when she saw Draco notice. Harry’s hands were clenched around his fork, not looking at Draco.

“Excuse me.” Draco stood abruptly. “I think I’m going to go outside for some air. Thank you for dinner,” he said courteously to Mrs. Weasley, who seemed taken aback by Draco’s unexpected burst of politeness.

It was a relief to be outdoors. The Weasley’s garden was overgrown and unruly, a horrifying mess compared to the manicured detail of the Manor’s parks. But Draco secretly felt that the Burrow had a rustic charm that the Manor, for all its perfection, lacked. 

He watched a chicken run out of its coop. It was so carefree; all it wanted for was a handful of grains. 

The sun had long set, and the only illumination came from a single fluorescent lightbulb, casting an orange shade to the entire backyard. Draco found it soothing, easing the shortness in his breath. 

How did he not know about this? How was it that Draco had to find out his father was under criminal investigation from a Weasley, of all people? His father – his own father – had said nothing.

Draco’s first instinct was to reject Mr. Weasley’s news. It couldn’t be true – his father was not shortlisted for canonization, but his father had no need to do anything as risky and illegal as laundering money for a criminal organization. And – his father would not be so foolish to be caught.  
But the clues fitted: the meeting Lucius had that night he and Draco had their argument, how Mr. Weasley was genuinely surprised Draco didn’t know. Mr. Weasley, despite his relatively mediocre position, was well-placed – and more importantly, well-liked. It wasn’t inconceivable that he had heard something regarding Lucius Malfoy’s malfeasance. 

And information like this was easily verifiable. Not to mention Mr. Weasley with his well-meaning demeanor did seem concerned about Draco. 

Draco just wanted a warm drink right now. Laughter and conversation bubbled inside. But he could not face being among them right now. 

And where the fuck was Harry? Draco desperately craved the reassurance of Harry’s arms, but Harry hadn’t followed him out. The idea of venturing inside to seek him out was too much for Draco.

“You’re going to catch something if you stay out here longer.”

It was Granger. 

“Won’t that make you happy?” Draco said bitterly. “You and that lot in there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know we haven’t gotten along in the past, but no one in there wishes you harm. Mr. Weasley was asking because you were out of sorts at dinner, not out of spite.” Unlike your father, Granger left unsaid. 

“You know why I was out of sorts,” Draco snapped. His sense of aggrievement, combined with what he had just learned, lashed out. “I know all of you think we’re just a family of crooks and you’re waiting for us to fuck up. So spare me the false pity and fuck off.”

“Are you done?” Granger was unimpressed. “I’m not out here to gloat – there’s nothing for me to gloat about. There’s nothing for any of us to gloat about. We care about Harry and Harry cares about you, so by extension your wellbeing matters to us, whether we like it or not. Now get your arse back inside before I drag you in myself.”

Draco had only seen Granger this ferocious once before, and on that occasion he had gotten punched. But he was reluctant to go in all the same.

“Where’s Harry?” Draco asked instead. “Why are you out here instead of him?”

Now Granger looked discomfited. “He — ahh — he left. He told me he had an urgent call and needed to leave immediately. I can drive you to the train station tomorrow. Molly can get one of the rooms upstairs ready for you tonight.”

“No.” Draco rose. There was no point in playing the martyr if Harry weren’t here. Lead filled his chest. Where was Harry? He just ... left? Draco recalled how silent Harry was when Mr. Weasley dropped his bombshell. Was Harry angry with Draco? Was he embarrassed, too disappointed by events justifying what others must had warned him ad nauseum about becoming involved with a Malfoy? A painful thought struck Draco – did Harry think Draco was also implicated? Was that why Harry decided to go?

Whatever it was, Harry had abandoned him. Somehow, that was what spurred Draco into action. It snapped Draco into autopilot; Draco reentered the house and grabbed his coat, thanking his hosts and begging to borrow a phone to call a cab. He’d be damned if he stayed a second longer, and Harry had been the one to drive them. If Draco didn’t have other matters on his mind, he’d be enraged at how Harry had taken the car with him too. 

“I’ll drive you,” Granger said, when Draco declined Mr. Weasley’s half-hearted attempts to convince Draco to stay overnight. Mrs. Weasley hadn’t said anything, but her face showed relief. 

Ron opened his mouth to object, shutting it again from Granger’s glare. 

To his own surprise, Draco found himself sitting beside Granger while they barreled down the narrow country road a few minutes later. It was much too late now to catch the train for London; Draco would check into the village in for the night and call a taxi to the station first thing in the morning.

A part of him wanted to wait for Harry. Draco had jabbed Harry’s number into his Blackberry several times, only to be met with voicemail. 

“He might actually be really busy,” Granger said, when Draco looked as though he was about to toss his phone out the car window. “Or his phone might have run out of batteries. There’s a million possibilities.”

Draco knew Granger was only trying to comfort him. She knew Harry just as well as Draco did, possibly even better. Harry wasn’t that type of man to disappear without a word. And logically, it was unlikely any event of such importance would happen in the middle of a cold spring night that would cause Harry to drop everything else.

But – “Thanks,” Draco said. He stared out at the ghostly figure of trees against the backdrop of faint lights. “For the ride.”

Draco wasn’t referring just to the ride, but he thought Granger knew that. 

~~  
Five years later, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire:  
The marble was cold against his hands. Draco took in the plaque in front of him: Lucius Malfoy, beloved father and husband. 

His father had died in a crash the day before his sentencing. Both him and Draco’s mother, along with their solicitor, had been in the car when it collided. Draco hadn’t been there; it was the aftermath of another quarrel that left sitting in the same space with his father almost impossible to contemplate.

How Draco wished he had been with them. 

What was left of his world disintegrated in that flash. No matter how much Draco argued with his father, Lucius had been the bedrock of Draco’s universe. His father was the central reference point from which Draco based his life. Lucius’ approval or lack of – it was the North Star to how Draco guided his own choices. And now that was extinguished.

The air fell still and heavy in the mausoleum. Generations of Malfoys were buried here: from Nicholas Malfoy, who made a fortune, it was whispered, from highway banditry and cattle-thieving, to his grandfather Abraxas, who barely escaped prosecution from war profiteering during the Second World War. 

They were now joined by Draco’s parents. Draco’s eyes moved to the name besides his father’s. Draco wrapped his arms around himself. He shivered, his lungs momentarily forgetting how to function. He couldn’t stop the parade of memories: Narcissa Malfoy smiling and pouring a cup of tea as she inquired about his day; his mother’s pointed attempts to set Draco up with one of the Greengrass girls; the surprise Draco had felt when she took Harry by the arm the first time Draco had brought him around to meet his parents.

It had mattered more than he told himself, how his mother had so easily accepted Harry as a fixture of Draco’s life. Her pained expression whenever Draco and his father had another one of their fights tore at Draco – he knew it had been one of her greatest wishes that father and son were not so at odds with each other.

But now it was all moot. 

Draco touched his face. It was damp. He should have the groundskeeper come and check the building to check the building again. He blinked hard, swallowing the lump in his throat.

It was two years since the day of that crash. That flood of emotion, of anger and grief, of hurt and regret, still tormented Draco, the cut as fresh as when he had first saw the news on television. 

He wiped his eyes angrily. He really needed to make that appointment with the groundskeeper. 

Perhaps the pain would dull if he just moved out of the Manor. Most of the assets the government had been able to touch were frozen, but Malfoys were no fools, and much of the family wealth had been structured in a complex legal arrangement of trusts and corporate entities that made Draco’s head spin when the solicitors explained it. But it didn’t matter: the gist was that it all came to Draco anyways. 

Some days, he would gladly toss the lot of it. 

But it was the legacy of his family, and Draco felt the weight of the responsibility. Not the money, but the Manor — it was his past, his heritage, and Draco knew his father would throw an apoplexy if anything happened to it. 

The least Draco could do now was take care of it. 

The lonely immensity of the place dwarfed him. Only one wing was occupied now; it wasn’t as if one person needed that much space. 

Unbidden, Harry swam into his head, with that mischievous grin and that mop of dark hair. 

Draco never heard from Harry again after that day at the Burrow. All of Draco’s calls had been ignored, and when Draco returned to his flat in London, all of Harry’s belongings had been cleared out. It was only much later, and from Ginny Weasley no less, that Draco learned Harry had departed on a tour in the Middle East. 

Despite himself, Draco obsessively tracked news of the war there, scanning the papers with hitched breath every report for any mention of Harry’s name. He’d even considered tapping into his father’s network, diminished as it were, to find out how to contact Harry. 

But he didn’t. Harry had made it clear — he wanted nothing to do with Draco, and it was not so much a hint as it was a full-page advert. 

The lack of communication hurt more than the leaving. Draco might be able to handle Harry’s anger, or his rejection, if only it were ameliorated by an explanation. But none seemed would ever be forthcoming. 

The halls of Malfoy Manor equaled the mausoleum in its lack of warmth. Portraits of Draco’s antecedents stared down disapprovingly in their gilt frames as Draco’s footfalls echoed. The peeling wallpapers rustled slightly in his wake. It was musty and smelled of dust; Draco had dismissed most of the staff after he had taken possession. It didn’t matter much; Draco spent most of the time in London anyways, only returning at irregular intervals to the country. 

His work kept him busy. It left him on constant travel and Draco didn’t have much time to spare for a cup of tea, much less lead the leisured life of a country squire. It was what he told himself, and it was all true.  
It hurt too much to acknowledge to himself that the Manor was no longer home. The fond memories of the place were tainted by the recriminations between his father and himself. The guilt at the anger Draco had at his father’s rejection added to the poison seeping from these walls like a miasma. 

It was also gothic in its eeriness. Part of that could be attributed the heavy curtains Lucius had favored, and that Draco hadn’t bothered to change. The décor certainly were in want of an update, but even when Draco slept in his own rooms, he woke up in a cold sweat from a subtle rattling.

It was probably the plumbing, which had not been overhauled since the Edwardian times, Draco told himself fiercely. Another item that needed attention in the ever-growing list of details that required maintenance. It was why so many of his family’s friends and acquaintances had decamped for smaller and more modern residences. 

Or maybe Draco was being too fanciful and imagined these noises. After all, he hadn’t been able to sleep without a valium for a long time now, which he invariably forgets to pack every time he leaves London. 

But he wasn’t imagining them now. It was unmistakable, the sound of shuffling papers and rummaging stationery – Draco heard the heavy scrape of his father’s Baccarat ashtray across the oak desk.

Draco clenched his fists. How many times did he have to tell housekeeping that his father’s study was off-limits? He didn’t want anything touched.

He slammed the door open, ready to shout – and halted. 

It was not housekeeping. 

Two men in plain dark suits were at his father’s desk. Sheafs of paper littered the carpet, books were ripped, the chair overturned, the drawers pulled out and askew.  
They looked up at Draco — and ran. Without hesitation, they charged at the window, the glass shattering with a resounding crash on impact. 

Draco chased. He landed in crouch, ignoring the concrete plant box cutting against his shins. He pushed off his heels — the intruders moved at a much faster clip than Draco expected, and they had the advantage of a head start. 

But Draco knew the grounds. The route they took would take them to the roadside outside the estate: they would need to go through the woods. Draco would take the shortcut. 

What did they want? They obviously were no ordinary burglars. For one, even in its current condition, the Manor had a state-of-the-art security system. No alarms had been triggered, no one had noticed the break-in. If it hadn’t been for Draco’s serendipitous detour, the two men would have come and gone without anyone catching them.

What did they want? They left the most obvious valuables – granted, the Bellini would have been hard to take with its heavy gilt frame -- but the rare books, the collection of Montblanc pens, those would have fetched a tidy sum.

Then the realization hit Draco even as a branch narrowly missed his face. His father’s papers. They wanted his father’s papers. The legal documents pertaining to the estate were at the solicitor’s safe, but the others were untouched in the study. Draco had left them there undisturbed.

They weren’t ordinary burglars. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather spread across his chest. What had his father gotten himself involved in? Even his death didn’t end this quagmire he had brought upon himself. 

Leaves crunched. His face smarted from the icy blast of wind. But Draco didn’t stop. He was almost there – if he took even a second’s break, he would lose the two men. They had answers, he had questions. He had questions ever since his parents’ crash.

And Draco wasn’t in a particularly good mood.

The two men stepped out of the clearing. One of them spoke urgently into his handheld while the other scanned the area. 

“It’s rude to leave without a farewell, even for uninvited guests such as yourselves,” Draco said, unfurling from the tree he was behind. 

They both jerked in surprise.

“I hope you aren’t under the delusion that we’ll come quietly,” one of the intruders, the taller man, said, recovering. “You’re outnumbered by the two of us and I doubt an academic such as yourself would be able to force us to come with you.”

“Maybe we should take him back with us,” the shorter man suggested. “After all, we didn’t find anything. Maybe young Malfoy here would know where it is.”

“What are you looking for?” Draco demanded, ignoring the other implication of the man’s statement. His curiosity overwhelmingly overrode any possible fear he might have had at being kidnapped by two criminals. 

“Why are you going through my father’s old papers?”

“Help us and we’ll tell you,” the taller man said. He had a sinister face: long, pale, and twisted, with a madman’s glint in the eyes. “Or we’ll be forced to use harsher methods.”

Draco tensed. “I’m having a really bad day,” he said, “and I really don’t take kindly to being kept in the dark.”

“By force it is then.” The two walked over, intent on hauling Draco away. 

Draco lashed out. His roundhouse kick struck the shorter man squarely in the chest, sending the man sprawling to the ground. His elbow aimed at the taller one’s face – Draco had the satisfaction of feeling resistance give way and hearing a crunch.

The two men doubled back, the taller man holding his nose in a hand full of blood, the shorter one with his arms around his stomach. There was a new wariness in the taller man’s eyes now.

“What the fuck, Dolohov?” the shorter man muttered. “I thought Lucius’ brat was a nerd.”

“Shut up, Wormtail,” Dolohov snapped. He regarded Draco. “I think we might need to rethink our plan of taking him with us.”

Draco was breathing hard, from the exertion and adrenaline. It had been too long since Draco had visited the MMA gym he used to frequent in London. Five years, to be exact. The last time he had sparred with anyone was with Harry.

That knowledge tightened his insides, and Draco dropped into fighting stance, the memory itching for a release in the form of his fists hitting flesh. 

He didn’t have to wait long: the two rushed at Draco. Draco countered with a jab to Wormtail that had him staying down. Dolohov was quicker – he avoided Draco’s hook by jumping back with a dexterity not previously displayed.

“You’re feistier than I thought,” Dolohov said, his madman’s glint flaring. “I like that.”

“Come in closer, then.” Draco was ready. He never thought he would miss this, having filed this part of himself away when Harry left. It was too painful a recollection. 

The sound of an incoming car interrupted – along with the unmistakable shot of a gun. Draco reacted out of instinct, diving under a boulder. He heard indistinct shouts, peeking out just in time to see the two men making their getaway in a nondescript silver sedan. 

Draco kicked the rock. Damnit.

~~

Draco restrained the urge to pound the desk with his fists. It had been two hours and he had found nothing. His father’s papers were a mess, uncollated and jumbled, with nothing that provided any insight for why anyone would want them. Most of them were diatribes or screeds against various figures in government, with Lucius railing against the direction of the country. There were one or two anecdotes which might be of interest to the odd historian, but nothing which would inspire a burglary. 

It would be easier if Draco knew what he was looking for, but he didn’t. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, though there were more stacks of paper waiting for him to read. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Sir?” It was one of the housemaids. “You have a visitor.”

Draco’s brows creased. He never received guests at the Manor. His father’s old set had all but dispersed, and Draco’s own friends all lived in London. Draco had not socialized with any of the local villagers; he had only stepped into the local post office once. 

“Did they tell you who they are?”

“No, sir. Only they seemed mighty posh and they looked as if they might be important.”

Interesting. Her description, though vague and unhelpful, piqued Draco’s attention. Their visit had to be related to the intruders and the mystery behind his father’s papers. 

Draco found them sipping tea in the sitting room. The maid was right — they did look ‘mighty posh’. Their suits were not Savile Row, but they were neatly pressed and immaculate. Draco felt himself at a disadvantage in his dirt-streaked jeans and sweat-stained shirt. He hadn’t changed since the melee with Dolohov and Wormtail. 

Draco saw with a glance that these men worked for the government. And not the usual bureaucrats, either; these two had an air of efficiency and hardness. Draco searched their faces: they betrayed nothing.

One man rose to his feet. He was a tall Black man, bald. There was a spark of gold from a single hoop earring. 

“Mr. Malfoy. Forgive us for coming at such an inopportune time, but we have important matters to discuss with you. My name is Shacklebolt and this is my colleague Dawlish.”

Dawlish set down his teacup. “Pleased to meet you.” His voice was impassive. 

“Do you work for the military or for the police?” Draco asked. He recognized the source of their aura now. Some of Harry’s superiors that Draco had met before carried themselves like that, as well as the Scotland Yard men who had questioned Draco in the course of his father’s investigation. 

“Neither,” Shacklebolt said. His voice was deep, like a gentle swell of the ocean, that sought to reassure Draco. “We’re Intelligence.”

“What do you want with me?” Draco didn’t drop his guard. These men were spies …. He narrowed his eyes at them. Unlike his father, Draco didn’t dabble in politics or involve himself in any arenas where national security might be concerned. He was an appraiser at Christie’s – it was possible he might get sucked into smuggling or money laundering, but those cases usually involved the police, not these men who looked as if they would not hesitate to send a man to die for Queen and Country. 

Shacklebolt reached into his breast pocket. Draco stiffened, half-expecting the man to draw a gun.

Instead, Shacklebolt took out a small polaroid. It was of the car that had fled the estate this afternoon; Draco recognized the grainy visage as the men self-identified as Dolohov and Wormtail.

“Our men tracked the car,” he said. “We’ve kept this house under surveillance ever since your parents’ death, and this was the first breakthrough we’ve had.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond. These men watched the Manor for five years without Draco ever noticing – nails dug into his palms at the anger of the violation. Burning in there too, was a rage at his father, for leaving yet another tangled knot of unhappiness for Draco to manage. By himself. 

“And why,” Draco asked, managing to keep his voice level, “was there a reason for you to watch my house in all that time?”

“That’s classified –” Dawlish said, but Shacklebolt raised his hand. 

“We’ll tell you the full story soon, Mr. Malfoy. But first, we want to know: did these men manage to take anything?”

“No,” Draco said. He sat down, the events of the entire day finally catching up. All he desired at the moment was a nice book and a cup of tea. “I interrupted them before they found what they were looking for. And before you ask: no, I don’t know what it is they are looking for either.” Draco eyed them. “But you would seem to have all the information here. So tell me, what is going on?”

“Those men work for a criminal organization,” Shacklebolt said, “the same one that was linked to your father’s … work. They’re members of a syndicate called the Mors Mordre, a group that has been linked to financing terrorism, drug-dealing, assassinations, and other acts of political intimidation and violence. In other words, not very nice people.”

Mors Mordre … Death Eaters. Draco poured himself a cup of tea. “I’m sorry, but this is all getting to be a bit ‘James Bond’. You’re saying that my father is part of this organization? That’s ridiculous. The criminal group he was accused of laundering money for wasn’t so impressive as this. They dealt in drugs and helped kleptocracies, yes, but what you said is a bit dramatic, isn’t it? And why isn’t the police dealing with this?”

“We believe a significant source of the group’s income is from distributing opium and arms for the Taliban and various other terrorist groups in the Middle East,” Dawlish said. “And that their activities directly clash with our interests overseas. Your father’s work, I believe, related to a project they had that involved smuggling looted artifacts from the region to finance some of these unsavory groups.”

Draco had no idea what the depth of his father’s participation was. Nor did he cared to find out. The body was buried, and Lucius’ secrets with it. Draco did not want to exhume all that.

“You’re welcome to my father’s papers,” Draco said finally. “I can’t make heads or tails of it, but I’m assuming you, with your superior resources, can. If you’re here to ask for them, then I’ll gladly show you the way to the study.” He hoped this would finally put to rest the last embers of Lucius’s misdeeds. 

“That isn’t what we want,” Dawlish said. “If we just wanted the papers, we would’ve just taken them.”

“What my colleague meant to say is,” Shacklebolt interjected hurriedly, seeing Draco opening his mouth for a furious retort, “is that we need your help. There’s no one alive who understand your father better than you do, and we need your expertise on the matter.” 

“I sincerely doubt that,” Draco muttered. “I think you’re laboring under a delusion that we were close enough for him to confide in me. If you’ve done your homework, you would know that we spent more of our time arguing than intriguing together.” Forcing himself to state the truth so baldly stung. Draco didn’t relish the dynamic he and his father shared. He had longed for the day when his father would turn a smile at him, when the love wasn’t conditioned on Draco meeting his father’s expectations. 

But that dream was a wisp in the air now.

“I think you know more than you might be aware of,” Shacklebolt said, not ungently. His eyes were sympathetic, and that grated almost as much. “We’ve been monitoring this group’s communications and we’ve managed to decrypt a certain segment of it. Has your father mentioned anything about a ‘Shield of Achilles’?”

Draco jerked up. “The Shield’s a myth.”

“Ah, so your father did mention something to you.”

“No, he hasn’t. But I do have a doctorate in archaeology and history of the Mediterranean region.”

“What is this ‘Shield of Achilles’ then?”

“How familiar are you gentlemen with your Homer?”

Dawlish shrugged. “Read it once for school. Don’t remember much of it. Why?”

Figures. These philistines.

“In the Illiad, Homer tells how the gods gifted Achilles new armor after his lover, Patroclus, lost Achilles’ first set when Patroclus was killed by Hector. This includes a magnificent shield.” Draco tried to recall the exact lines. “‘Then he first made a shield, broad and solid, adorning it skillfully everywhere, and setting round it a glittering triple rim, with a silver strap attached. Five layers it had, and he decorated it with subtle art.’ And then the poem goes on to describe the shield. From the center, it depicts the entirety of Greek life, from the workings of Heavens to the workings of the plow.”

“So it’s code then,” Shacklebolt said. “We’ve experience with these groups using literary allegory as code. They do it often, in case regular communications were intercepted.”

“Well, the shield can be read as an interpretation for Homer’s thoughts on war. Or a microcosm of society. But some people think it is real. Fringe thinking and rather nutty, but then, we have people who refuses to accept the Earth is round.”

“What do these people think?” Shacklebolt asked. “Other than how a shield described in a poem is real.”

“Well,” Draco said, “it’s possible that Homer simply heard and passed down the oral tradition of the Trojan war. So in that sense, it’s very possible that Achilles’ shield is a real item, albeit embellished. It could be that Achilles was a very real man, a war chief or warrior who participated in the fight against the Trojans, and his exploits became legendary.” He paused. “But the theory gets crazier from here. The fringe thinking goes that not only was the shield real, but it was actually forged by the gods themselves and had the ability to show the truth of the world. So in other words, it has some clairvoyant or such properties.”

Dawlish burst out laughing. “That seems a bit of a stretch to extrapolate from a few couplets.” 

Draco fought to conceal his annoyance. “I did warn you the theory was a bit … stretched. Besides, all myth have their roots in truth. People used to think the Trojan war was a myth until someone everyone thought as a nutter actually managed to excavate the site. Granted, his methods did more damage to the discovery, and he did have ulterior motives. But his persistence did end up in revealing Troy as real.”

“But what do you think this reference to the Shield means?” Shacklebolt asked. Unlike Dawlish, he showed no incredulity, but listened with a quiet patience. He had a thoughtful expression. “Do you think the discovery of the Shield will have any impact?”

Draco snorted. “I doubt it. It’ll be archaeological and historical coup, but it’s not like it’s new books of the Bible.”

“What if the Shield did have these clairvoyant properties?”

Draco raised a brow. “Is this how our taxpayer money is spent? For you to be investigating ludicrous claims? Because if that’s so, I think I need to write to my MP.” His father had stood for the seat more than once, Draco remembered. Never with much success: Lucius Malfoy was too much the aloof aristocrat to ever find acceptance from the electoral system. 

“The Official Secrets Act covers this meeting,” Dawlish said. “You cannot divulge any word of this.”

“You are an officious irritation,” Draco snapped. “And no, I’m not going to reveal any mention of this meeting – my academic and social reputation hang by a thread as they are.” He gave an internal shudder at the idea of the Daily Sun catching wind that Draco Malfoy, hated scion of a crime family – never mind that the Malfoys were ten generations of proper English gentry – bandying fanciful theories to MI6. 

Dawlish seemed about to say something nasty, but Shacklebolt shot him a warning look. 

“In that same message, our station in Helmand picked up notice of a rendezvous between the Mors Mordre and a known faction of the Taliban. They plan a sale of the item you’ve just described.”

That didn’t sound good. The Shield might not be a fabled relic of mystical power, but if it were real, it would be a priceless artifact that belonged to the public. Draco loathed that in one stroke, it would enrich terrorists and be lost forever in criminal hands.

“What I don’t understand is why it would be in Afghanistan of all places,” Dawlish said, recovering from his sullen silence. “If I remember correctly, the Trojan war was fought in Turkey.”

Draco nodded. “Yes. But in 334 BC, Alexander the Great visited the site of Troy and paid homage to the tombs of Achilles and Patroclus with his lover Hephaestion. Alexander was a great admirer of Achilles, and incidentally claimed descent from the Homeric hero. It’s believed that he found the Shield there, and that was partly the reason for Alexander’s remarkable military success.” 

“If that’s true,” Shacklebolt said slowly, “then we need to prevent the Mors Morde from getting a hold of it. Mr. Malfoy, on behalf of Her Majesty, we would formally request that you assist in the recovery of this item. After our operative recovers the item, you’ll be responsible for verifying its authenticity. We can’t put a civilian out in the field, but we need an expert close by.”

“What?” Draco stared at Shacklebolt as if he had just grown an extra head. “This isn’t Indiana Jones. I’m not going to take off and chase after some legend, with or without your permission. We don’t even know if the Shield is real.”

“But there are people who believe it’s real enough to pay good money for it,” Shacklebolt said. “Money that directly finances the killing of our troops. So in that respect, it’s real enough.”

“I thought you wanted my help with my father’s papers,” Draco said, “not go off on some wild goose chase in the middle of Afghanistan.”

“You can multitask, can’t you? Besides, those two are linked somehow. I’m just as uncertain as you are about how, but all the indicators suggest that you are the best man for the job.”

Draco gave Shacklebolt a dubious look. He worried for Britain if all the men responsible for national security were like these two. “An expertise in archaeology doesn’t make me the best man for the job. I work at Christie’s, for God’s sake. I’m used to temperature-controlled labs and prissy curators, not bombs and criminals.”

“We know your history, Mr. Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said. “You’ve worked in the Middle East before, trying to track down looted antiquities after the fall of Saddam. By all accounts, you were brilliant at it.”

“Didn’t stop them from cutting me loose the minute my father’s indictment hit,” Draco said under his breath. That still smarted, how they explained with apologetic faces they couldn’t afford to take on another junior curator. It had been clear to all that the real reason was his father’s face splashed across the tabloids with ever more lurid headlines.

“You’ve also have experience mountaineering, which will come handy in such a mountainous terrain. You can ride, shoot, and –” 

“I’m an English aristocrat,” Draco interrupted. “Of course I can ride and shoot. I played polo for a summer if you’re listing my attributes.”

“And you’re a ranked MMA fighter,” Shacklebolt continued as though Draco had not said anything. “You speak four languages and you clearly are familiar with the subject matter. And we saw how you handled Dolohov. He was a former hitman with the KGB, you know. It was impressive what you did.”

“Don’t you have special agents for these types of things?” Draco asked. He couldn’t deny he was warmed by Shacklebolt’s praise. “I appraise antiquities. I don’t steal them from clandestine criminal meetings.”

“We’re not asking you to. But we need someone who can reasonably verify the artifact once we’ve obtained it. It needs to be in the field — it’s too dangerous to risk any delay to ship it to any of the locations we typically use.”

“You know I can’t do these things on the spot, right? I need a lab and specialized equipment— “

“We only need a rough idea if the artifact is real,” Dawlish said. He appeared to be unenthused about Draco’s potential involvement as Draco himself. “I’ve made my objection to involving a civilian on record and I think it’s better if we have one of our trusted operatives intercept the handoff. We can handle the delays.”

Draco glared at Dawlish. Dawlish’s tone rankled, despite Draco’s own misgivings.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out before Draco realized they came from himself. Shacklebolt looked gratified. 

“We were right about you, Mr. Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said with a slight smile. “We’ll provide you with financial renumeration, of course, and you’ll be given access to our resources for travel and other field equipment you might need. You’ll also be assigned a partner when you land.”

“What about my father’s papers?” Draco wondered what he had just agreed to. On the face of it, it didn’t seem much different than if someone invited Draco to his estate and assess the heirlooms. But uneasy nerves unsettled his stomach.

“With your permission, we can have them collated and digitized for you to go over,” Shacklebolt said. “I’m guessing they aren’t that easy to analyze on your own.”

“Alright,” Draco said. Was he agreeing because, against all his better judgement, Draco wanted to unravel the mystery of his father’s death? And truth be told, Draco was becoming exhausted by the numbing idleness of his current life. “Do I need to do anything to prepare or bring anything?”

Shacklebolt shook his head. “We’re not sending you into the field per se; you’ll be staying at the forward operating base, where you’ll be relatively safe. If you have any equipment you can bring with you – books, laptop, a magnifying glass – feel free to do so.”

“Will you be issuing me a gun?” Draco asked, remembering Shacklebolt mentioning Draco’s ability to shoot.

“No. We have regulations that disallows us from doing so unless you’re one of us. But if you have your own, feel free to bring it along.” Shacklebolt gave Draco a crooked smile. “You won’t be flying commercial, after all.”

~~

Camp Bastion, Helmand, Afghanistan:

Draco was still disoriented from the seven-hour flight. The blast of climate control added to Draco’s headache after being outside on the arid landing field. 

He was in a sparse space, made out of prefabricated materials. It was all brutal, functional lines, with the only concession to comfort stiff wooden chairs that would probably aggravate Draco’s back ache if he sat in one. 

So this was a military camp. Draco didn’t know what he had been expecting, but he didn’t have much of an opportunity to explore before he was rushed off to meet with the field officer. He would be briefed and prepare while this officer intercepted the meeting between buyer and seller. 

He had been escorted into a room dominated by a large table in the middle and a large screen depicting a map of Afghanistan. Next to it was a whiteboard with what Draco supposed was a detailed diagram of military operations. It looked more like a child’s scrawl to him. 

All that paled in comparison to the man at the focus of the room.

He was even more broad-shouldered than he was five years ago, the face darkly tanned and weather-beaten, but still youthful, especially when that smile flashed. 

Harry. 

He turned to face a gaping Draco. Harry had not changed much in all these years. Even with so much time past, the mere sight of him still left Draco’s knees weak – though this time, it was from a heady potion of anger and pain rather than desire. But that was in the mix too, an unwelcome heat rising from his belly, the urge to touch Harry again.

“Hello, Draco,” Harry said, when Draco didn’t respond. “Do you want sit down and close your mouth before a fly slips in?”

Draco dropped ungainly into a chair. 

Harry Potter…. After five long years, he had decided to finally appear back in Draco’s life again, and in the most dramatic way possible.

Draco had thought about trying to contact Harry; he had contemplated even driving to the Burrow and demanding that they give Draco Harry’s address. But it all came to naught – Draco knew that if Harry had wanted to contact Draco, Harry would have. 

“What the hell is this?” Draco managed finally, his voice a rasp of disbelief and tiredness. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m your field liaison,” Harry said. His lips curved. “Welcome to Afghanistan, Draco.”

Draco ignored Harry’s proffered hand. He had half a mind to stand up and stalk out of the room, but it was pleasant to be sitting with enough room to stretch his legs after spending so long on a cramped military plane. 

“I have no idea you were military intelligence,” Draco said, settling on the first of the numerous questions running riot in his head. Well, the second. The first – the urgent need to know why Harry left-- hurt too much for Draco to voice.

“Yes, I’m just as surprised as you are at the way my career turned.”

“How?”

“They watched me in action, they liked me, and they recruited me. I considered what they had to offer, and I thought that I would make more of a difference with them, so I joined.” Harry sat down opposite Draco. Now that Draco managed to collect some of his bearings, he could pinpoint the subtle, less noticeable changes: there was hardness to Harry’s eyes that hadn’t existed before, a brittleness to that easy smile. Physically, there were additional scars and a tightness around his lightning-shaped scar that was the tell-tale sign of plastic surgery. 

Draco recalled tracing his fingers over that scar, pressing a gentle kiss against it before continuing with their lovemaking. He flushed, turning away from Harry. 

Even after five years, Harry still had that power to affect him.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked. He even sounded concerned. “I know it’s not a very pleasant flight, but we are on a tight schedule and don’t have any time to lose. If you’re feeling tired or jetlagged, the best I can do is some aspirin and coffee.”

“Malfoys don’t get jetlagged,” Draco snapped. “It’s plebian.”  
Harry chuckled, and for a moment they were thrown back in time, back to when all that stood between them was when to fold the socks away. 

“I remember. But you sure you don’t want anything? You look a bit green.”

“No, I’m fine,” Draco said, rubbing his head. He was in the middle of an airbase in Afghanistan with the ex-boyfriend who abandoned him when Draco needed comfort the most. No amount of medication or caffeine can fix his level of discomfort. 

“Suit yourself.” Harry settled back into his new self, the barely perceptible differences of the man he was now springing back into place. “It’s probably for the best. The coffee is awful.” 

Draco didn’t want to sit here talking about the coffee. “So you’re a spy now and you’re the one those two back home decided to pair me up with. Are you fucking serious?”

Harry ignored the profanity. “You’re staying here in the base, so it’s more accurate to say that I’m your handler. I’m not letting you anywhere near the operation. You’re a civilian – we can’t risk you getting hurt.”

“Why do you care?” Draco said bitterly. It appalled Draco how easily his cultivated mask of indifference crumpled. “Besides, how do you know I’m not changing my mind about my cooperation this very moment?”

“You’re free to leave if you want to,” Harry answered seriously. “I won’t stop you. But you want to get to the bottom of this as much I do, don’t you? Your father’s death, the people he was involved with, what he was doing? And I know you want to make your own archaeological discovery and name just as much as anyone. The real-life Indiana Jones, so to speak.”

Draco glared at Harry. “Do you also know how much I want to punch you right now?”

“I wouldn’t recommend that. Fighting on a military base is strictly prohibited, and we’re pressed for time as it is. Now, the more cooperative you are, the faster we can get this over with, and you can go back to England.”

Draco deflated, too drained to continue arguing. “I’ll stay. But only because of the archaeological importance of the object and to find out what really happened with my father’s death.”

“I didn’t think there was anything else you were staying for,” Harry replied.  
But they both knew that wasn’t true.

~~

There were no tents available, so Draco was sown to one of the VIP quarters for the night. It was only a small hut with a minimal of furnishings: a hard cot, a rickety chair, and an even more unsteady wooden desk.

Draco unpacked, stacking his laptop next to a small pile of books – a traveler’s account of Afghanistan, a book on Alexander the Great’s campaigns in the region, and a dog-eared copy of the Iliad.

He tried perusing it once again, searching for clues in Homer’s description in vain. Draco’s mind was too filled with Harry to concentrate. So this was where the man hand ended up. Draco still wasn’t entirely convinced the entire affair was a practical joke. Harry, a spy? Harry had never been able to conceal his emotions and thoughts. He practically shouted them. One could always tell – or hazard a fairly accurate guess – as to when he was upset.

But maybe Harry didn’t have an undercover role. After all, he was parading around the base with nary a precaution. Draco had watched as Harry exchanged a brief joke with an officer, clapped a private comradely on the back. Harry appeared well-liked here.

But that didn’t come as a surprise. Harry Potter, the golden boy, the football hero who had led Hogwarts into their first victory against Eton in five years.

Perhaps Harry provided the muscle for the operations. He certainly had them, Draco thought with a blush, remembering the breadth of those shoulders, the firm biceps that flexed under Draco’s hands as they pressed against each other –

No. Draco would not allow himself to be sucked into that vortex of nostalgia. He would stay here, doing what he was asked to do with professional detachment, and leave when the work was finished. 

Draco breathed in deep. It was the only way he knew how to handle this: retreat back to the security of practiced routine. He had managed to do so five years ago in Baghdad, and he would do it again. He won’t let Harry derail him from that. 

He gave up. Rereading what he already knew was useless. Draco tossed the book to the side, stood up and stretched. On a whim, he stepped outside his hut. 

The sky was clear and the moon hung brilliant, casting the entire base in a pale light. The dust that covered everything added a slight glimmer under its soft glow, and a slight breeze stirred occasionally, picking up the sand. 

It was beautiful in a lonely, ghostly way. It evoked feelings of the untamed wild, and indeed, over the rows of tents was the desert, stretching for miles as far as the eye could see. 

Interrupting the quiet was an explosive sneeze from Draco. He rubbed his nose. 

“Be glad that this is one of the most secure bases that we have,” Harry said, appearing out of the darkness. 

“Oh. It’s you.” Somehow Draco wasn’t surprised to see him. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Too much to do,” Harry said. “Want to sit?”

They sat, Draco making a face at the streak of grime on his pants.

Harry laughed. “What, afraid of a little dust, Draco?”

“Of course not,” Draco said with injured dignity. He ceased trying to wipe it off. 

They sat in silence, looking out in the distance. 

It was agony to be so close and yet so apart at the same time. Draco longed to have Harry’s callused hand in his once again. He also wanted to hit Harry. 

Harry’s proximity meant that Draco could feel the warmth from Harry’s body and smell Harry’s scent. Even in the middle of a desert war zone, it seemed that Harry still used the same cologne. It was the brand Draco used to buy Harry for holidays. And underneath it all was masculine sweat, the familiarity of it all adding salt onto the wound Harry’s reappearance had split opened. 

“So.” Harry seemed discomfited by the silence. “How are you?”

“Can’t say I’ve been poorly.” It was so hard to speak so civilly to each other like strangers. Draco cocked a small smile. “Can’t say all this hasn’t been interesting. Second time I’ve had to visit a war zone to recover and verify stolen artifacts.” The mythical aspect of the artifact in question was new, and Draco’s pulse rose at the idea of it. It was what drew him to history and archaeology in the first place: finding and unraveling the mysteries of the past. It was the puzzle, the detective work, fitting together bits and pieces of disjointed information to reveal the truth, whatever that may be. 

It was also the dream of every archaeologists to be the one that discovers fabled items out of legends. Even now, a thrill ran through Draco. “Do you think the Shield is real?”

“You’re the expert here. You tell me.” Draco heard Harry’s smile even in the dark.

Draco considered his answer. It was easier to focus on an academic debate than it was to think about Harry.

“I think it could be,” he said slowly. “Why else would all these people want it? I wouldn’t have come out here for a bedtime story. At the very least, there is something that these people want. It might not have the fabled powers that’s attributed to it, but it’s rooted enough in the real world that people are willing to pay good money for it.”

“Money that directly finances attacks on our troops,” Harry said.

“Yes.” It was sobering to realize. Draco wouldn’t be looking at some shards of pottery unearthed by accident that no one outside of a select circle cared about. The weight of his responsibility was almost physical. 

Also burdening him down were the questions he wanted to ask Harry, about why he left, about why he had never even attempted to contact Draco. There were a million unknowns that Draco needed Harry to solve, but Draco could not find the will to voice any of them. 

He didn’t know how he would like the answers.

He shot a glance at Harry from the corner of his eye. Harry’s profile, limned in soft silver and highlighted by the occasional plane, shone in the night. Harry’s eyes were shadowed in part, but his posture was more relaxed than earlier today.

Draco wanted to lean into Harry like in the old days. The tension of the moment was upon him; it was achingly poetic, and Draco only had to close his eyes and surrender to it, to pretend that everything was as it should be…. 

Harry’s arm reached out and wrapped around him. 

Draco stiffened in surprise. “What are you doing?” He sought to slip out the embrace.

“Tomorrow might be dangerous,” Harry said and his voice was low. Wistful, even. “Can we just, for a second, pretend like nothing’s wrong?”

Draco wanted to retort that nothing had been wrong until Harry broke their relationship, but he couldn’t steel his heart to do so. Instead, he laid his head on Harry’s shoulder. 

The pieces fit, like two parts of a puzzle. It was still awkward: the ground was hard and cold, and Draco’s hair had him almost slipping off.

But it didn’t matter. Harry was right; in this moment, it was like time had been suspended, that their past had disappeared. Right now, they were just two people, connected by circumstance, offering each other comfort. Draco snuggled close, wishing that they could stay like this forever.  
~~

“So what is the plan?” Draco asked, watching Harry change into a loose-fitting tunic whose coloring blended in with the sand. “I’m just supposed to wait for you here?” 

“Yes.” Harry strapped a holster under the billowy material. “It’s dangerous, Draco. The people meeting are from two of the most dangerous groups on the planet. Who knows what might happen?”

Draco understood that. But he also hated the idea of being left behind, even as he knew he had no military training, and probably would get himself killed the moment he stepped out the base.

It had not occurred to him how difficult it was to leave Harry again. They had met again in the morning for breakfast, a paltry meal of insipid tea and overcooked bacon, for the final briefing. Neither of them had mentioned what happened between them last night.

It was just as well; Draco didn’t know if he could stomach the idea of having his hopes raised and rejected over unpalatable food. They had kept their conversation light, confined to the oh-so-British topic of the weather, though learning about how the spring was like in Afghanistan was infinitely more interesting than discussing whether it would rain back in Wiltshire. 

Even when discussing such trivial subjects, Draco had learned a few facts about Harry since their separation. Like how he had been stationed here long enough to familiarize himself with the local languages and climate, or that he seemed like he genuinely loved the place. 

Draco understood why. He had been unable to sleep, tossing and turning and cursing how much of a fool to exchange Egyptian cotton for such a hard cot. He had stepped outside just as the fingers of dawn reached across the desert. It stirred in him an awe that no mornings back home could ever do.

They then spent the rest of the morning in video conference with Shacklebolt and Dawlish, reviewing the plan one last time. They would monitor the rendezvous point, with Harry bringing several other men to ensure that the handoff did happen. At the last possible moment, they would go in, arresting those involved and seizing the Shield and everything else that they happened to bring along.

It was simple and straightforward, not a whiff of intrigue about it. It also portended the most danger for Harry.

Draco hated how the image of Harry being injured – or worse – tore at him. He had tried to project the aloof confidence his father used to wear like a second skin, but he had a feeling it failed miserably. His hands twitched every so often during the meeting, and Draco was certain Harry had noticed.  
“Be careful,” Draco said to Harry. “Don’t do anything stupid.” He had an inexplicable desire to go with Harry. It was ridiculous: this was Harry’s job. Draco’s job was to wait for the artifact, determine its veracity and how it fitted into his father’s death. It wasn’t Draco’s role to be in the field.

Harry winked at Draco. “You know I won’t.”

Draco stared at Harry’s back as Harry exited. There was a nagging hunch that something would go wrong.

Draco didn’t trust his intuition often: it was too messy, too imprecise, and it often confused more than clarified. But Draco knew – with certainty – that Harry needed his help. Not in a general sense, nor limited to what he was tasked to do here, but out there, at the exchange on the field. 

Stop that, he told himself sternly. There was always a chance of danger; Draco used to be inured to that when he and Harry began sleeping together while he was an active Royal Marine. But somehow, in these intervening years, Draco had lost that helpful perspective. Now he was twitching worse than a junkie denied his fix. 

A knock at the door. A sandy haired young private poked his head in.

“Has Commander Potter left?” he asked. It took a second for Draco to register the man was referring to Harry.

“Yes, not long ago,” Draco said. “What’s this about?”

“New intel from our satellites, sir. There appears to be several Hummers in the vicinity of the area.”

“That’s normal, isn’t it? I mean, for a meeting between two dangerous groups, it’s not uncommon for them to bring reinforcements, right?”

“Right, sir. Well, the thing is, is that these seem more numerous than usual, and have been making suspicious movements, such as clearing ahead of the route Commander Potter and his men are planned to use. It’s almost as if –”

“It’s an ambush.” Draco rose to his feet. “It’s a trap. We need to reach Harry. Have you reached him yet?”

“That’s the thing, sir. We tried radioing him first, but he didn’t respond, so we assumed it hasn’t been activated yet and he was still on the base. But –”

Horror stomped on Draco’s insides. “He already left. He’s walking into a trap.”  
Worry displayed on the young private’s face. “We can send a team in after him, but all our available ones are on other missions right now, and the latest one of them will arrive back will be in half an hour. We have no men to go after him.”

“Try radioing him again,” Draco said, feeling none of the confidence his tone held. “Maybe the radio will be on now.”

The young man snapped a salute. “Yes sir.”

As he went off, Draco stood still. He found himself rooted to the floor, his mind buzzing too furiously to think.

Then he went for the car park.

There were several on the base: one for the light armored vehicles used for the more dangerous missions, and several for the supply convoys bringing in the necessities. Draco ended up standing amidst a sea of Humvees and Land Rovers.

“Hey!” A man in one of the Land Rovers spotted and ran out. “You don’t have clearance to be here! You need to go back—”

Draco ignored him. He ran up to the car. “I need to borrow this,” he shouted. “It’s life or death.”

The man’s face puzzled. No one else paid them much attention, busy with their own tasks. 

Draco seized the opening and jumped into the driver’s seat before the man responded. Lucky for Draco, the key was still in the ignition. 

Draco kicked the gas. The car crackled to a start and zipped off. 

There were loud shouts as the man recovered his senses – Draco heard the others jumping to attention now. Out of the rearview mirror, soldiers raised their guns, preparing to shoot – 

“Don’t shoot,” Draco yelled into the squawking radio. “I’m joining Commander Potter on his mission. You can confirm it with him when he gets back. Or ask Shacklebolt and Dawlish –” Draco read off the number they provided him, the one they warned not to give out indiscreetly. “I’ll bring the car back in one piece, I promise!”

He tensed, ready for the car to shudder to a halt from the hail of bullets – 

None came. 

Draco heard no response on the radio, but neither did any of the soldiers fired, either out of confusion or because they believed him. He didn’t have time to be grateful – he needed to reach Harry.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief as tires hit the dirt road. No one came after him or launched a rocket to stop him. 

He tried to focus. He dimly remember the map that had been on display at the briefing this morning. It wasn’t difficult for the details to return to him; Draco had been staring at it the entire time, only half listening to Harry and Shacklebolt and Dawlish talking. 

The prominent land features fixed in his mind; Draco rummaged to power on the GPS. 

Draco drove like a madman; he needed to reach Harry. 

He must be insane; Draco had stolen a military vehicle and was running blindly into danger. 

But something in his chest overrode all rational consideration to propel him in doing this. The private’s words rang in his head: “No one available — heading into a trap —”

Draco ignored the bumps as the all-terrain vehicle plowed forward, the GPS in the car beeping. 

It was with some relief he saw the Humvee Harry had set off in this morning. Draco honked at them desperately, trying to catch their attention. 

Both cars stopped at the same time.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry yelled, coming out of the car, his face contorted with rage. “You are fucking up an Intelligence op – Draco?”

Draco poked his head out of the window. “It’s a trap,” he said in a rush. “You have to get out of here –”

“Just what the fuck is going on, man?” Someone else had stepped out of the Humvee. “Our targets are on the move, and we need –”

“You’re headed into a trap,” Draco shouted over the man. “They know you’re coming, and they’ve stationed lookouts the entire way. You need to get out of here at once!”

“Draco, I don’t know what’s going on, but you can’t just run into an operation like this. And is that a British Army Land Rover?”

“Yes, well –”

A loud explosion cut off Draco’s embarrassed explanation. An explosion followed by machine gun fire.

Without hesitation, Harry lunged at Draco, pulling him down behind the Humvee, the armored frame shaking from the thud of the bullets. 

“What’s going on?” Harry’s voice was loud in his ears. It still came muffled through the buzzing as Draco was plunged into frozen fear –

“Draco!” Harry shook him. “Don’t freeze! Relax. Breathe. Focus on me. Listen to my voice.” 

Gradually, in what seemed like a lifetime, Draco untangled from the knot of terror. He still gripped Harry’s hand so fiercely it would’ve broken a lesser man’s. Harry didn’t even flinch.

“We’re not armed with the kind of firepower they have, sir,” the man who was in the Humvee said in a thick Irish accent. He was crouched, looking over the side. “We’re equipped for stealth; the other teams have the big guns.” He shot a look at Draco. “Finnegan here, sir. It was brave of you coming out here like that to warn us. You’re a civilian, is that right?”

“He is, and it was damned stupid of him coming out like this,” Harry said, his lips pursed. Draco wanted to laugh; disapproving Harry looked so angry it was comical. 

“Oh.” Finnegan didn’t inquire into the clear undercurrent of tension. “I’ve requested backup, but the signal seemed to be jammed.”

“I came because they couldn’t reach you,” Draco explained. He forced himself to keep talking, to keep his mind off the patter of bullets. “They spotted these men on satellite, but your radio wasn’t working, so I came.”

Damn. That took balls,” Finnegan said. 

Harry had an unreadable expression. “You did all that just to warn me?”

Draco only nodded. His body was still numb. 

“What is our plan, sir?” Finnegan asked when Harry continued looking at Draco. “We’re not going to be able to fight out of this one.”

“We can,” Harry said. His face was set in grim lines. “From the direction of the fire, there doesn’t appear to be more than two or three men concentrated in one direction. And at the rate they’re firing, it’s likely they’ll run out of bullets soon. We still have our smoke and standard issue grenades. When they take a pause, we go in with those. First the standard issue, then the smoke. That’ll create the opening for us.” Harry gave Draco a stern look. “You are going to stay here. Behind this Humvee. If you move so much as an inch, I’ll—”  
“What, spank me?”

Draco didn’t believe the first words that slipped out of his tongue were those. Harry blushed and Finnegan looked as if he might burst out laughing. 

“Just listen to me, Draco,” Harry said. He gave Finnegan a look as the gunfire stopped. “Ready?”

They burst into action, flinging out their explosives. The resultant bang deafened Draco’s ears as the two men charged into the ensuing melee under the cover of smoke and dust.

Draco sat behind the Humvee, choking under the fumes, his nerves scrapped raw by every gunshot, every grunt. His imagination, blocked off from the pressure valve of sight, whirled into overdrive – he tried hard to press them out, to not picture the worst scenarios –

Finally, the sounds stopped. Draco peeked out. 

There was a nasty gash on Harry’s arm and Finnegan’s face was bruised, with an impressive shiner of a black eye. They came out silhouetted against a swirl of sand and flames, battered – but victorious.

Draco almost collapsed in relief. He pulled himself up with difficulty – did he always weigh this much? a voice in the back of his head asked –and walked slowly towards them. 

“Finnegan, take the Land Rover back,” Harry told him. “I’ll drive Draco back. I think we need to get our stories straight for the brass when we return.”

“Yessir.” Finnegan saluted. He grinned at Draco. “Hope all goes well sir. For the record, I think you were brave, coming out here like that for your friend.”

“Off you go, Finnegan,” Harry snapped, but there was no heat.

He and Draco were alone again, the tires of the Land Rover fading into the background.

“What were you thinking?” Harry said. “I’m so furious with you – you have no business being out here – you could have been hurt – or worse –”

“The same might have happened to you! I couldn’t let that happen. I – I –” Draco glanced away. He waited for Harry’s recriminations, his rebuke.

But –

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly. 

Draco’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He became acutely aware of every sensation, from the breeze on his arm to the loose flap of his shirt. His palms were sweaty, his knees heavy, and this morning’s breakfast churned unpleasantly in his stomach. 

But Draco was lighter than he had been seconds ago.

“What’s going to happen now?” he asked, once he finally regained his voice.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “We need to return to the base and regroup. It’s possible that this was a trap from the beginning, or that they somehow found out we knew about the sale. Either way, it’s not good.”

“No.” A thousand scenarios raced through Draco’s head, each more worrisome than the last. “I guess we’ll figure it out somehow.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Get in the car. Come on, I’ll drive.”

There was the unmistakable cock of a gun.

“That’s a good idea,” Dolohov said pleasantly. He emerged from behind one of the dunes, shaking off bits of sand. “It’s a good thing I caught you here, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter. Otherwise, I would have had to make a visit at the airbase and walking in with all those soldiers isn’t that conducive to conversation.”

Draco froze. They hadn’t seen him in the gunfight; it must be that Dolohov had somehow waited until it was over. He was dressed to blend into the surroundings and carrying – Draco noted – an extremely large gun. Next to Draco, Harry stiffened, his hand reaching slowly –

Dolohov let out a volley a foot away from where they stood. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said. More men came out. They wielded the same automatic rifles Dolohov held.

“It’s impressive you and your friend took out most of my men like that,” Dolohov continued pleasantly, as if they were discussing stock prices. “I’m not surprised that our master holds you in such high esteem. But you already knew that, didn’t you – Harry?”

“Just kill me and spare me your taunts,” Harry spat. He gave Draco a tortured look.” And leave Draco out of this. He doesn’t know anything. He’s not involved in this.”

“Oh, no.” Dolohov shook his head, his grip tightening on the gun. “Mr. Malfoy is crucial to our plans. Truth be told, we want him more than we wat you. Now, both of you, get in the car.”


	2. Chapter 2

Draco sat bound, his back against sharp rock. Harry was trussed in the same way opposite him. 

Draco attempted to still his fear, taking slow sips of air through his nostrils. It was hard to breath, the atmosphere choked by dust, smelling fetid and stale. Odors of cooking clashed with sweat and unwashed bodies.

They had ridden in the Humvee with Dolohov. Draco had been shoved in the backseat, Dolohov next to him, the cold gunmetal pushing against Draco’s side. Harry had driven in terse silence, obeying Dolohov’s barked directions. They had abandoned the Humvee a mile away from where they were now, walking the rest of the way. Draco’s feet were blistered and sore from the trek.

They were in a cave. It was clear that this was used as a hideout, evidently had been for some time. Draco had no idea where they were, his grip on the geography of the desert vanishing the moment he felt the gun.

He looked at Harry. Harry sat with his eyes closed. Draco envied Harry’s state of meditative calm. How Harry managed that, Draco didn’t know.

Draco shifted slightly, trying to gain a more comfortable seat.

It caught the attention of a wolfish-looking man. He licked his lips and leered at Draco. 

Draco swallowed, his fear intensifying at the sight of yellowed teeth bared lasciviously. ‘

“Hello, pretty,” the man said. “We’ve heard about you. I knew your father, Draco.”

“Don’t touch him, Greyback,” Dolohov said, walking in. “We need him in one piece and you know what a mess you leave after you play with your toys.”

“Don’t you touch Draco,” Harry said. He sounded completely at odds with the calm he had only recently projected. “If you do, I’ll –”

“You can have him,” Dolohov said, thumbing at Harry. 

Greyback made a face. “I like to make my own scars.”

“What do you want with me?” Draco asked. “Is it for my father’s papers? Because I know even less than you do, as I’ve already told you.”

“I’m sure that is not the case,” Dolohov said. He sat on a stool, eyeing Draco like a puzzle to be solved. There was that madman’s glint on his eyes again, and Draco remembered what Shacklebolt had told him, that this man was a former KGB assassin. “I think you know a lot more than you think. You just need a little more ... persuasion.” He raised a hand and stroked Draco’s cheek. Draco jerked away. 

“We have time,” Dolohov said finally. “And I’m sure our master will want to question you himself.”

“Who is your master?” Draco asked. “What else do you want from me?” He narrowed his eyes. “Was this just all a trap to lure us out here?” It was awful to think that he was the reason he and Harry were captured. 

“Of course not,” Dolohov said. “We wouldn’t waste all that effort just for you. We could have taken you back in good ol’ England. It’s your fault that you’ve decided to be busybody and interrupt our transaction. We knew your MI6 was watching. We simply moved up our handoff earlier.”

“It’s real?” Despite the dire straits they were in, Draco’s pulse quickened for a different reason. The idea at finding the fabled Shield of Achilles…. “Are you sure?”

“I understand you’re an antiquities expert, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps you can verify it for us.”

The reality of his situation sunk in. Draco glared at Dolohov. “I’m not going help you.”

Dolohov chuckled. “Oh, you will, one way or another. It doesn’t matter whether you help with this or not. We have other experts that can verify the object’s provenance.”

“That Shield belongs in a museum for the public, not whichever oligarch you plan to sell it to,” Draco said. The thought of it hiding in some private collector’s wall angered him. “You’re looting a piece of history.”

“My, my, you’re cute when you display your naivety. That’s one thing I disliked about Lucius — he was much too clever for his own good.” Dolohov shrugged. “Maybe you’ll make the same mistake as him, maybe you won’t. But rest assured that the Shield is going to further a greater cause than you — or anyone in the world — can imagine.”

“My teachers in school always thought I had an overactive imagination,” Draco said. “Try me.”

Dolohov smiled at Draco. It was more chilling than any threat. “I suppose you won’t have the opportunity to repeat the information to anyone.” He glanced at Harry. “You or your friend.”

Draco’s throat caught at the implications of that statement. But Dolohov was still speaking. 

“I assume you’ve heard of the Shield’s abilities?” At Draco’s nod, he said: “They’re true. The Shield can give you great insight into what is to come. It will be a great asset to further our master’s plans.”

“If you tell me those plans are world domination, I will laugh in your face,” Draco said. “Nothing sounds stupider or more cliche than when a villain wants to take over the world.”

“Oh, but my dear Draco, we are so much more than your storybook villains.” Dolohov leaned in. His breath was foul. “You’ll find out soon enough. I suppose young Harry here hasn’t told you anything.”

Harry made a sudden movement. 

“Yes ….” Dolohov bared his teeth in a smile. “Harry knows all about this. Probably more familiar with it than I do, to be honest.” He turned his attention to Harry. “You’re ever present in our master’s thoughts. I suppose you should feel honored by that. Not many of us can claim the same.”

Draco listened, trying to make sense of this conversation. What was Dolohov talking about? Harry couldn’t possibly know this ‘master’ that Dolohov kept on about. Certainly, Harry understood what was happening here far better than Draco, but that was his job. Like a stockbroker knowing the Nasdaq or Draco being able to ballpark with precision the range from when a stele might date from. But Harry wouldn’t have a deeper familiarity than a professional awareness….

“I don’t know what your game here is, but if you’re trying to divide us, it isn’t going to work,” Draco said. His shoulders ached from the contact with the hard surface. “And your dropping these cryptic hints won’t make me want to help you any more than when you asked earlier.”

“He’s very uncooperative,” Greyback remarked. “Are you sure I can’t persuade him to be more helpful?”

“We don’t need his cooperation at this moment,” Dolohov said. “And your methods are perhaps too amateurish to do much. No offense,” he added at Greyback’s scowl. “We want his willing help, not somebody broken.”

“Why?” Greyback asked, stung. “What’s so special about the son of a traitor?” He raked his eyes over Draco. The gaze was like ants crawling across his skin.

“If you leave him unable to string two words together, we’d never be able to figure out what Lucius took from us,” Dolohov explained. “Besides, our master wants him unharmed. That should be reason enough for you.” Despite the reasonable tone, Draco could hear the edge underlying Dolohov’s words. Behind that mask of momentary amiability, there was true danger, and Greyback subsided with ill grace. 

“I think we should leave you here to think, Mr. Malfoy,” Dolohov said. “Talk to Mr. Potter here. See how lenient our master is being with you. Don’t think of trying to escape, though. This entire place is monitored, and we have men stationed at every exit. You’re our guest, but don’t presume too much on our hospitality.”

“Fine hospitality, this.” Draco gestured at the ropes that trussed him up. “Untie this, at least.”

“I’m afraid those will have to stay on for the moment, Draco,” Dolohov said. A wild gleam of anger returned to his eyes. “I remember how good you are with your fists. Surprising, that. Didn’t expect Lucius with his soft hands and pressed suits to have a son like you.”

Dolohov and Greyback left the cave, leaving a seething Draco and silent Harry.

Draco looked at Harry. Despite that single outburst, Harry had stayed quiet throughout the entire exchange. That wasn’t like him. 

Draco kicked at Harry. His legs were just long enough to touch the edge of Harry’s shoes.

Harry looked at Draco with a start. There was something in his eyes that Draco couldn’t read; it was haunted and clouded, and Draco couldn’t figure out the reason behind that. 

“Are you alright?” Draco asked. It seemed like the easiest way to begin. “You’re not hurt anywhere, are you?”

“No.” Harry shuffled into a more comfortable position. Draco could sympathize. They had tied the ropes tight; it cut into his skin, the fibers burning raw whenever Draco moved. At least they didn’t gag him and Harry, but that indicated their location was too far away from any help. 

Harry leveled a look at Draco. “Are you? Hurt, I mean.”

Draco was about to respond with a negative when his emotional walls broke. It had been battened since the moment he had saw the Dolohov and – what was that man’s name? Something about a worm – in his father’s study, and even more when he saw Harry again. But now the screws were coming loose and Draco didn’t know if he would be able to stem the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. 

To his credit, Draco managed to keep his voice even as turmoil roiled him. “I think we need to get out of there. And for us to do that, you need to tell me what is going on.”

“I’m sorry I got you mixed in this,” Harry said. He didn’t look at Draco. “If it were up to me, I would have never allowed you in this country in the first place.”

“It’s not your fault,” Draco said, pushed in the uncomfortable position of consoling Harry. “You didn’t tie me up and throw me on the plane.” Unlike Dolohov and his men. “I came for my own reasons, and I came after you for my own reasons too.”

“If I hadn’t given your name to Shacklebolt ….” Harry whispered. He blinked. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Draco’s head shot up. “What do you mean?”

“I suggested to Shacklebolt that we bring you here to ascertain the Shield. I had thought – I didn’t expect –”

Draco was at a loss for words. What could he say to that? Anger burned – it was Harry, all along, that orchestrated this. He was the one who gave Shacklebolt the suggestion to bring Draco to this miserable place. 

But that wasn’t the worse of it: Draco remembered the cool reception from Harry when they met, the detachment that still stung. 

“Why?” Draco asked. “Did you ask me out here because you actually needed my help that desperately?” He didn’t know what he was fishing for, an admission that Harry needed him or that all this was a farce. And even furious as he was with Harry, he recognized that no one expected circumstances to derail so precipitously. It was Draco’s own fault -- if he had only driven faster –

But it wasn’t helpful to dwell on those thoughts. 

“What do we do now?” Draco asked. “Please tell me you know how to get out of here.”

“I can get these ropes off,” Harry said. “But they’re watching us, and I doubt I can overcome them all by myself.”

“You have me,” Draco replied without thinking. He flushed. “I mean – I don’t know what I can do, but –”

“Well, you’re alright to have as backup in a fight, though your form is terrible,” Harry said with a slight smile. “But in any case, I don’t think it will do much good until we’ve both recovered a bit.”

“So in the meantime, can you tell me what’s going on?” Draco said. “From what Dolohov said, it sounded as if this is something personal with you and that ‘master’ he keeps referring to.”

Harry finally looked Draco straight in the eye. “Knowing too much is dangerous.”

“Knowing too much is dangerous” …. It stirred Draco’s memory …. Dolohov had made a similar statement about Draco’s father…. 

It hit harder and with more speed than a bullet. “My father – he was killed by them because he knew too much.” Draco met Harry’s gaze straight on. “He found out something about whatever they’re planning right now and was silenced because he was going to talk, wasn’t he?”

Harry sighed. “You’re too intelligent. Yes. Lucius Malfoy was offered a plea deal by us. In exchange for his aid, he would have received protection and immunity from further prosecution. We suspect the car crash was orchestrated by Mors Mordre.” 

Hollowness expanded in Draco’s chest. Somehow, the revelation did not shake him. He had considered this version of events in one form or another since he had seen the broadcast on the evening news. At the time, Draco had dismissed it as the mind trying to come to grips with the senselessness of death. And even when the study had been ransacked, Draco had tried to reject the idea. He thought of his mother, her face lit in laughter. 

Suddenly, Draco wanted to hit someone. His father, Dolohov, this mysterious ‘master’ – they had destroyed the family he had, for the sake of greed and whatever twisted desire that grew in the muck of their hearts. What Draco had with Lucius and Narcissa wasn’t perfect – god, it was the farthest from – but he had treasured it nonetheless.

“Draco?” Harry asked hesitantly. “Are you alright?” 

“What?” Draco turned away. “I’m fine.” Damn that his voice tripped on the last word.

Harry didn’t press. Harry had always been good about that, Draco recalled, always having the presence of mind to offer discreet comfort without appearing intrusive or overbearing like so many others. 

“And who is this ‘master’?” Draco asked when he was certain his voice no longer cracked. “Why do they keep calling him that?”

“Because that is what he is – their master. He’s the top man at Mors Mordre, the one responsible for all the atrocities the group has carried out. He’s ruthless in the pursuit of his goals, executing anyone who fails him.”

The fear when they talked about him … it made sense. 

“What’s his name?” Draco asked. “Do you know it?” And what’s your connection with them?

“His name is Tom Riddle, though the organization gives all of its members aliases. His is Voldemort.” 

“Voldemort,” Draco muttered under his breath. “Vol de mort … thief of death…. It sounds ominous.”

“He’s a dangerous man, Draco, despite how comical it may be to adopt such a stupid nickname. He’s a mass murderer, someone who kills without compunction, and sometimes even without reason.”

“They seem to have a fascination with death,” Draco remarked. The chill in his chest seemed to gather despite his levity. “Death Eater … Thief of Death … All these aren’t very subtle, are they? And how are you tied up in this?”

“They killed my parents.”

Silence. 

Stunned into silence, Draco could only stare at Harry. He knew Harry was an orphan; indeed, it had been one of the main taunts Draco mocked Harry with during their public-school days. But –

“I thought your parents died in a car accident,” Draco said in a small voice.

“Apparently arranging deaths in car crashes is a specialty of theirs,” Harry said, and the bitterness made Draco want to reach out and hold Harry. 

“I’m sorry.” All those small digs at Harry from Dolohov made sense now in light of this new fact. “You specifically asked to be on this team to take down this organization, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Harry’s eyes were unflinching. “I’ve been investigating them ever since I learned the truth about my parents’ death. And when the team in charge of countering them found out, they offered me a spot.”

Draco could see the other Harry, the side which Draco only encountered once before, coming out. It was that of the solider, the Royal Marine, the man who had saved his life when he had been caught in an ambush by Iraqi insurgents five years ago. It was hard to reconcile that with the man Draco laughed and made love with, the one who left his dirty socks around, the one who had held Draco in his arms just last night. 

It was a Harry that was taking over. The flinty eyes, the harsh lines of the mouth — Draco knew that eventually, they would harden until the easy smile disappeared beneath the hardness. 

“So you see, I don’t intend on dying here,” Harry said. “Nor do I intend on letting them take you with them.”

“There might not be a choice. You were the one who pointed out how much of a disadvantage we’re in.”

“I have an idea,” Harry said. “But you need to trust me.”

Draco didn’t like the sound of that. But he only said: “I do.”

“We need to talk to someone,” Harry shouted. “Anyone!”

An Afghan man came in, armed with the standard machine gun Draco had begun to associate with this place. It was a pity, that such a beautiful country was reduced to a few negative impressions. 

“What do you want?” he said in flawless, if accented, English. 

“I need to speak with your bosses,” Harry said. 

The man narrowed his eyes. “I’ll get one of them.”

What are you doing, Draco mouthed.

Trust me, Harry mouthed back. 

The Afghan man returned, followed by Greyback. 

“What’s this?” Greyback licked his teeth. “What do you want, Potter?”

“I said your boss, not this glorified lackey,” Harry said to the Afghan man. 

It didn’t seem like a good idea to Draco for Harry to provoke Greyback. “Harry ....”

“Dolohov said I was to leave the Malfoy untouched, but he said nothing about you, Potter,” Greyback said, advancing on Harry menacingly. 

Harry sneered. “I’m not afraid of you, you overgrown piece of — oof!”

Greyback had backhanded Harry viciously. Draco spasmed, stopped as the Afghan man turned his gun on Draco. 

Harry spat out flecks of blood. “You’re not so tough, only beating up someone who can’t fight back —”

Another hit and a grunt. Draco surged forward – the guard raised his gun.

“Don’t think about it.” The guard tightened his grip as Greyback continued to rain blows on Harry. Draco stilled. 

He needed to do something. Sitting here and watching Harry being pummeled wasn’t an option – every strike landed harder than the one before. Harry bore it stoically, but for Draco – it ripped through him. He tried to avert his eyes, but sickening sight riveted him.

“Stop it,” Draco rasped. It didn’t. He tried again. “Please.”

Mercifully, the sounds paused. Greyback turned from a bloodied Harry to Draco. 

“I don’t take orders from you,” Greyback said, dragging a sharp nail gently down Draco’s cheek. “Even from someone the master wants unharmed.”

Draco saw Harry, battered, glare defiantly. But there was also a flicker of triumph, and Draco knew what he needed to do. 

“What do you want from me so that you’ll stop hurting Harry?” Draco asked, tamping down his revulsion. 

“You can’t bargain with me, boy,” Greyback said, smiling that feral smile of his. “But if you get on my … good side … then I’ll consider your proposal.” 

“How?” Draco kept his eyes fixed on Greyback, trying to hide the dread. His heart pounded so loudly he was almost surprised others didn’t hear it. 

Greyback inched in. “Watch him,” he ordered the guard, who went to stand over Harry. 

Up close, Greyback smelled of rancid sweat and gun oil. But he carried no gun. His hands touched Draco’s face, almost like that of a tender lover, though the expression on his face was anything but. 

Draco breathed in deep, not bothering to conceal it anymore. Greyback’s eyes betrayed the suggestive enjoyment from Draco’s disgust and horror.

“Being cooperative is so much more helpful, is it not?” he cooed, crouching down. “See how easy it is to get on my good side –”

Draco’s legs snapped out, hooking against Greyback’s ankles. At the same time, he headbutted Greyback. Ignoring the stinging in his eyes, he pulled up and rammed his knees into Greyback’s stomach with all his might. Greyback gasped, his eyes watered in pain as he collapsed, wheezing.

Simultaneously, Harry lashed out, catching the guard with a sweep that sent the man crashing to the ground. At the same time, Harry pushed himself forward, contorting to grab a small knife that Draco hadn’t noticed was on the ground before. Keeping one foot firmly on the guard’s chest, Harry cut through his bonds.   
“Nice work,” Harry said, the words coming out a little thickly. “That’ll probably get you disqualified at the next fight tournament, though.”

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Draco demanded, struggling to his feet. He kept one eye on Greyback. “He could’ve killed you.”

Harry shrugged, the ropes finally dropping. He pinched the guard’s temples. The man’s eyes instantly fluttered shut. 

Harry picked up the automatic. With a deft movement, he brought it down on Greyback’s head. The twitching ended.

“It was the easiest way to get the knife,” Harry said, sawing through Draco’s cords. 

Draco stood, blood rushing to his cramped shoulders. “You could have been killed. How did you know he had a knife in the first place, anyways?”

“He was wearing it,” Harry said. “I saw it when he was here with Dolohov earlier. It didn’t make sense for him to take it off in that short period of time he went away. And –” he shot an apologetic look at Draco – “I was relying on you to distract him.”

Draco didn’t like being manipulated in such a manner, but he nursed a grudging appreciation for Harry’s quick thinking. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Draco told Harry. “If any part of your plan had gone wrong….” The consequences were unimaginable.

“You’re swearing more than usual,” Harry observed with a smile. “It’s very atypical of you.”

He was a sight, parts of his face purpling and puffy from the swelling. Harry sported an impressive black eye. Despite all of this, Draco wanted to kiss Harry. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Draco said, taking a deep inhale. “We should probably go before more of them come.”

~~

The hideout was a labyrinthine warren of dimly lit passageways. It reminded Draco of Malfoy Manor, with the minor detraction of less expensive furnishings. 

It was a heart-stopping sojourn; every time they turned a corner, Draco thought his heart would burst. He almost preferred the certainty of captivity. 

They agreed that the best course of action was to search for the Shield. The impulse to run and the curiosity of actually laying eyes on the storied artifact warred in Draco. 

Harry had only reluctantly agreed that they should stay when Draco pushed.

“Our main priority should be escaping,” Harry had said after a heated debate. “If we find the Shield, fine. But that’s not number one on our list.” It was an uneasy compromise that they had no choice but to accept. 

They rounded a curve in the tunnel. Ducking out of sight and listening, they watched two guards pacing the entrance of a room. 

“Do you want to check this one out?” Draco whispered. “It’s much more guarded than the other ones we’ve come across.”

“Follow my lead,” Harry whispered back. 

Draco took a suppressed breath. He locked his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to see Harry shoot men – even men that had no compunction firing on them – in cold blood. 

To his relief, Harry crept stealthily behind them, clapping one on the temples with the same trick Draco had witnessed back at the cave, and knocking the other out with a knife-hand strike. All of that took under less than half a minute.

“Hurry,” Harry hissed. “Help me hide these two.”

Scientifically, there was little difference between unconscious and dead weight; Draco struggled to pull the man out of the corridor, finally managing to shove him unceremoniously in the corner. 

“What now?” Draco panted. Perhaps this whole episode was a sign for him to revisit the gym.

Harry said as much, though in a much more concerned tone than the voice which spoke to Draco in his head. 

“No time,” Draco said. He didn’t elaborate further. “I think we might be in the right place.”

Before them were at least a dopzen crates filled with artifacts. Even from this distance, Draco saw that were on par with any displayed at the British Museum or the Metropolitan Museum in New York. There were coins stamped in the Greco-Bactrian style, Roman cameos in bas-relief, Buddha heads that still exuded a serenity despite being broken and pillaged from their homes. Draco wanted to weep in outrage. The cultural massacre this represented spanned centuries and multitudes of civilizations that interacted at this crossroads between the East and West. What was dumped in those boxes should have been lovingly categorized and preserved, not treated like debris from a construction site. 

“Damn.” Harry took all of this in. “I’m no curator, but I can guess these are worth at least a couple million pounds.”

“They shouldn’t be here like this,” Draco hissed. “It’s sacrilegious to treat humanity’s cultural treasure like this, like they’re trash someone picked up from the ground.”

“I doubt they’re treated as trash,” Harry said. “These will probably end up in the hands of private collections and the money going to buy bullets and explosives to kill our friends.” His jaws clenched and Draco knew Harry was thinking about the men stationed at the airbase who had become his comrades and family in the long time Harry had been in the country. 

“Let’s keep looking,” Draco said. He didn’t want to think of the possible actions he might have to take to keep these out of Dolohov’s hands. “The Shield might be in here somewhere.”

“How am I suppose tell what it is from the hundreds of junk that’s in here?”

“First of all, they are not junk.” Draco glared at Harry. “And secondly, the Shield should be round, with ornate engravings.”

“Right. A round shield.” Harry looked around dubiously. “That’ll stand out.”

“Well, given how badly these people want it, it’s probably not crated like everything else.” Draco combed through the information he had researched on the Shield. “Mycenaean shields – the period of the alleged Achilles – were usually bull-hide. However, smaller ones have been found made entirely of bronze. From the Iliad, it’s described as having five layers: two bronze, two tin, and one gold. So we’re looking for a round object from these composites. It’ll be very decorated.”

“I’m surprised it’s not completely in gold,” Harry commented.

“Well, Achilles was a warrior, and his equipment had to be practical. Even mythical shields made of gold won’t be useful in battle. They’ll be too heavy, and gold is too soft.”

“You talk as if these people are real.”

“Well, they are, in a way. These figures have become so engrained in our culture that their historicity doesn’t really matter anymore. Sometimes, belief is all that makes a difference. If people are willing to buy and kill for the shield that purportedly belonged to Achilles, then the object is real enough to be taken seriously. And who’s to know what happened thousands of years ago? Maybe there was a warrior named Achilles and he did have a lover named Patroclus a long time ago.”

Harry laughed. “Very well put, Professor.”

Draco slanted a glare at Harry. “You know I had to teach those snotty undergraduates as part of my graduate studies. Don’t mock.” 

“Yes, I’m sure you were a brilliant teacher. Much better than old Snape.”

“I still correspond with him, you know. He still disapproves of you and your insufferable arrogance.”

“Likewise.”

Not for the first time, Draco wondered how it was that he and Harry ever managed to enter a relationship in the first place, buffeted on all sides as they were by disapproving parents, friends, mentors. He supposed it had only been a matter of time before what they had ended in tears. 

“We had a good run, didn’t we?” Harry said softly. He must be thinking along the same tracks. “You and I. We worked well together.”

Draco couldn’t have this conversation. Not here, not now. 

Not ever.

“Let’s keep looking,” he said brusquely. “Let’s give it one more minute before we leave.”

Harry obeyed. Silence ballooned between them again, and Draco wished that there was a way to return to even just a moment ago. 

They looked through several more crates. Draco was struck dumb by the impressive array of artifacts. The ones in this room must have been the culmination of years of work. Once again, his self-control almost snapped. So much pillaging and looting, and it was clear that the ones who did so gave no damn. Draco saw the marks of careless handling like scars on these objects – they were only out to enrich themselves at the expense of their collective heritage. It would be one matter if these were being sold by those who would starve otherwise. But the money would be going to those who beheaded anyone that flouted their narrow views of their universe, people who used the funds raised from the sales to kill Draco’s own countrymen. 

He buried himself in the search. Just as he was about to give up, his hand touched something cold.

“Wait.” Draco didn’t have gloves or anything that would prevent his fingers from leaving oils that might damage the metal. He wrapped one hand around the flapping fabric of his shirt, and picked it up.

It shone in the sparse lighting, a dazzling splash of color that stood out even amongst the other pieces. To Draco’s surprise, it was not rusted or tarnished in any way, not even where the Shield was not gold. 

The enamel on the details were intact too. They were mesmerizing, drawing the eye in with its minute accuracy. The Earth, sun, and moon took center, surrounded by the constellations. And moving outward were depictions of life as the Myceneans knew it – farming, war, festivals. Even as Draco examined it, these images flickered, shimmering. They changed, the swords into guns, the plows into tractors –

“I’m impressed you found your way here,” Dolohov said. He leaned insouciantly at the entrance, his gun pointed directly at Draco. “Now be a good boy and put that back down.”

“This isn’t just an ordinary artifact,” Draco said. His hands tightened on the Shield. As he did so, the glow faded, and the changes Draco had seen became undone, the scenes returning to what it was previously.

“You’re very observant,” Dolohov said in a mocking tone. “Why else did you think my master wanted it? It certainly isn’t for the masses.”

Draco gazed at the Shield in his hand. It was heavy, too much for his grip, and his wrist bent at an unnatural angle trying to hold on. It was special — Draco felt it in his bones. Though the Shield did not change again, it seemed to vibrate in his hands, and it was like resting on top of a ca hood with the engine pulsing under.

“I’ll help you,” Draco said. “I’ll examine the object for you. If you promise not to harm Harry and me.”

His offer was more than out of desire to save himself and Harry. Draco wanted more time to study the Shield. It was ludicrous, but it called to him. If Draco closed his eyes, vivid impressions of thundering hooves, of towering columns of dust, pressed themselves like hot fingers against his lids. 

Dolohov smiled. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he said softly. “The power that’s in it. It’s tempting, isn’t it?”

Draco barely heard him. He was fixated on the Shield. 

“Draco,” Harry hissed. “Don’t listen to him. They just want to use you.”

“Mr. Potter, you don’t think we all use each other in some way, every day? Consciously or not, we’re all each other’s playthings. Can you say with certainty you’ve never used dear Draco over there?”

“No!” Harry said hotly. “I haven’t!” He turned imploringly to Draco. “Don’t listen to him. Don’t give them what they want. You’ve seen for yourself what these people are. Think of your father… think of all their victims.”

With an effort, Draco tore his eyes away from the Shield. “My father ….” How did he fit in this? Lucius Malfoy disdained any history that was not relevant to the glorification of his own ancestry. What did he know about Ancient Greece or cultural preservation? 

“What did my father have to do with this?” Draco asked Dolohov. “Why did he have to die?”

“He was a traitor,” Dolohov said. “No one betrays us. And he was the one who handled the transactions for the experts responsible for the breakthrough in the location of the Shield. He … intercepted some of them as insurance. He evidently thought giving that information to our enemies would have ensured his safety.” Dolohov gazed at Draco. “In a way, your help would wash away the sins of the father.” He inched closer. 

Harry stepped in front. 

“You’re going to have to get through me first,” he told Dolohov. Bedraggled and even more unkempt than usual, Harry stood between them how Draco always pictured Achilles after defeating Hector: bloodied, bruised – and triumphant. 

“Mr. Potter,” Dolohov sighed. “You really are testing my patience. You are one man. You really can’t think you’ll have a chance at succeeding to get out of here without my blessing. It’s already impressive as it is that you’ve manage to get past Greyback, though he was never that useful to begin with. But now you’re being ridiculous, especially when I’m giving you such a good bargain. Draco’s help for your lives.”

Draco spoke rapidly: “The object in question dates from around 1300 BC, judging by the style of the engraving and the intricacy of the enameling. It suggests that this Shield is not entirely Mycenean in origin, as the Myceneans used a technique called cloisonne, which is when thin flat strips of gold separate the enamel. The technique here used is much more reminiscent of what the Celts did, which is when cells or impressions are filled with the powdered glass. It would make sense, as the Myceneans had a very developed trading network, with Mycenean products being found in even Wales.”

“That’s very interesting, Draco, but that isn’t what my master wants to know. He doesn’t care for the historical background or the intricacies of the art. What he would want to know is how to activate that power you felt earlier.”

Draco gave Dolohov a puzzled look. “I’m an archaeologist and historian. It’s already far-fetched enough that I believe this is the actual Shield of Achilles. Now you want me to find out the deeper meaning behind the shit I saw caused by what was probably heatstroke?”

“Language, Draco. And I thought you were a proper gentleman. I felt what you did too, and I certainly did not suffer from heatstroke. From what our experts divulged to us before Lucius stole the information, the inscription on that Shield is a code, and unlocking that code will unleash the Shield’s true potential.”

“What, trying to be swift-footed Achilles too?”

“You mock,” Dolohov said, his face entirely without mirth, “but it was with this that Achilles and later Alexander became the most powerful men of their times. And now, it is time for my master to follow in their footsteps.”

“They were also men who suffered from megalomania, whatever their redeeming qualities were,” Draco said. “Which proved to be their Achilles’ heel, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

“That’s not a matter for you to concern yourself with, Draco,” Dolohov said. “But in any case, I grow tired of bargaining. Your help for your life and that of Potter here. It’s a fair bargain, and one that I think my master would consider very generous. Now how about it?”

Everything paused. Draco struggled to hold the Shield up. His wrist twisted from the pressure. 

“No,” Draco said and he silently apologized before aiming the Shield straight at Dolohov. It flew, propelled by the momentum, like a discus of the old. It arced through the air, smoothly despite its weight. 

Dolohov froze, the instinct to pull the trigger warring with his orders to keep the Shield safe. Draco was impressed by how obedient Dolohov was to his directive.

It was only a split second, but that provided all the window Harry needed. He jammed the rifle into Dolohov’s face – Draco heard a sickening crunch as the man fell. Draco grabbed Dolohov’s gun. 

Harry didn’t waste any time. He grabbed Draco’s hand and pulled him out of the room. Draco felt a pang at seeing the Shield rolling to a halt near Dolohov’s prone body. The primal urge to survive overcame his longing to take the Shield with them. That, and a healthy tug from Harry.

They ran. 

“Do you know where to go?” Draco asked. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“I’m trusting luck,” Harry said. “And I can feel a soft draft coming in this direction.”

Now that Harry mentioned it, Draco did too. 

“That’s impressive. But what if we run into the guards again?”

“Take cover while I shoot our way out.”

Draco wanted to laugh but Harry was dead serious. Draco turned serious. This wasn’t a game – it was life or death, and it was very likely it would end in death.

“I have a gun too,” Draco said 

“Yes, but you don’t know how to use it.”

“I do,” Draco said in annoyance. “I’m an English aristo. It’s practically a requirement.” The semiautomatic was heavy, though not much more than the shotgun he occasionally used back in the days when he had participated in clay shooting with friends, and even more rare, when his father used to organize game shoots on Manor grounds. Draco didn’t mind the bits of pottery, but to see live animals, even ones noisy and irritating as pheasants, made him gag. Just another mark of failure for Draco as far as his father was concerned.

“Yes, but this isn’t bits of old crockery, Draco. Can you aim at that spot between a man’s eyes and pull the trigger? It’s not a mindset that you can pick up like a toy. Nor should it be.”

“I’m not going to hide while you put yourself in danger,” Draco said angrily. “At the very least, let me defend myself. I don’t want to see you hurt because of me.”

“Just stay behind me, Draco.” Harry sighed in exasperated defeat. “And don’t do anything stupid like charge at the enemy.”

“I promise.” Draco steeled himself, his hand clenching around the handle. In spite of the bravado he had just displayed, his blood chilled at the possibility he might actually be forced to take a life. 

It’s them or us, he told himself. That was all there was to this – the most basic human urge to survive. 

So far, Draco counted his blessings that they did not run into anyone. Dolohov had been left lying on the ground, but he hadn’t been unconscious, and was likely organizing the search for them at this very moment. They needed to get out in the open, where at least light and the terrain would allow them more freedom to move. That outweighed any tactical advantage in these tiny, narrow spaces where he and Harry were unfamiliar with. 

The walls of the cave shuddered, as if hit by artillery.

Hell, from the ensuing boom that followed, it could have been artillery. Draco prayed to whatever deity watching above that they weren’t about to be caught in a firefight between Coalition and Taliban forces. 

For some reason, Harry broke out a wide grin. If it weren’t for his strict self-discipline and the fact that they ran for their very lives, Draco might have thought Harry would have broken out in a little jig. 

“Why are you so happy?” Draco panted. That was it — he really needed to visit his old gym in London again. Or have one installed at the Manor. “We’re about to get caught in a battle and hit by friendly fire.”

“No, they’re reinforcements.”

“How do you know that? I know that anyone from the Coalition forces will be happy to help if they knew who we are, but they don’t know that we’re here.”

“Actually, they do,” Harry said. “I have an emergency radio transmitter on me at all times. It should be reinforcements. They should’ve came sooner, but I’m guessing it was all that rock that prevented them from picking up the signal.”

“What? But they checked you — checked both of us — when they brought us here.”

“It’s in one of my tooth,” Harry said. “I activate it by biting down. You don’t think I go into these situations completely unprepared, did you?”

“Well,” Draco admitted, “you do seem more prepared than you were before. Remember that trip we took to Brighton and you forgot your suitcase and we hand to turn back halfway?”

“I was busy loading yours into the car! Who brings five trunks of clothes for a weekend trip, anyways?”

“I need options,” Draco sniffed. The leaden terror in his chest lifted, both from the banter and from the sunlight pouring in — they were near the entrance. 

Harry felt it too. They ran harder, throwing all remaining effort into their sprint. They fell, knees deep in the sand. 

Draco saw a tanned and freckled hand in front of his face. 

“Hello again sir,” Finnegan said. “You and the commander over there look like shit, pardon my language.”

Relief and exhaustion uncapped his natural reserve, and Draco burst out laughing. He used Finnegan’ s hand to haul himself upright. “It’s been an adventure, I have to admit that.”

~~

The raid ended with them capturing most of the men inside the cave, including a Greyback that was still unconscious when a platoon led by Harry went in to scour the remnants. 

He was brought out spitting with rage and disbelief; Draco watched as they spirited him away in an armored van. 

This chapter was over. Finally over. Draco collapsed against the pleather seat of the Land Rover. It was surprisingly comfortable. Either that, or the contrast from the rock wall of his former prison too deeply impressed upon him. 

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, climbing into the seat beside him. 

“What else did you find in the cave?” Draco asked, ignoring Harry’s question. “Did you get the Shield?” 

Harry shook his head. “It disappeared. I’m guessing Dolohov took it and left from another exit that we hadn’t covered.”

That unfortunately didn’t surprise Draco. Like a rat hole, that hideout probably had many means of egress for a day such as this. “What about the other artifacts?”

“They didn’t manage to take all of it. Only half of them.” A wearied exhale. “It’s the best we could do under the circumstance. We don’t have enough manpower to search the entire area or interdict any planes that might have taken Dolohov and the rest. We’ll just have to take what small victories we can.”

“That seems like the best approach to life,” Draco said gently. “Take whatever wins you can get and move one step at a time.”

“Is that what you do?” Harry looked at Draco in the eyes. “Live one day at a time?”

“I thought that’s what soldiers do,” Draco replied, tensing a little at Harry’s tone, “to cope with the uncertainty.” He met Harry’s gaze. 

“I suppose you’re right.” Harry settled back, slumped, and looked forward. 

“At least we did good work here, didn’t we?” Draco added, trying to bring Harry out of this unexplainable gloom. He was sorry for snapping at Harry earlier. Harry didn’t use to be like this – or he did, but it was less pronounced and easier to deal with. It was up to Draco to jostle Harry back into his regular self. “I wonder if they’ll let me help with the repatriation of those artifacts.”

“You’ll be lucky if they don’t deport you straight away,” Harry said, easing slightly. “You did sneak out of camp without permission, stealing military property to do so.”

“The operative term is borrowed,” Draco said. “And it was returned in one piece, wasn’t it? And so are we.”

“Barely. I hope you learned your lesson, Draco. Don’t pull a stunt like this again. It might seem like an adventure to you, but it’s not a game. You don’t get a second life or a chance to restart. You die. Simple as that.”

“I don’t treat this as a game,” Draco said. Greyback’s leer, Dolohov with his gun pointed at Harry – they were like imprints of some horrible nightmare and yet they had been all too real. His heart was sore, like the blood was ready to burst from the fear. “But I know how important this is. And I didn’t want them to hurt you.”

“I don’t want them to hurt you either, Draco. So next time, stay in the camp.” He sighed. “I should’ve never asked them to bring you out here.”

Because you were worried about a civilian getting hurt and the inquiry that follows? Or because you were worried about me getting hurt? 

But Draco didn’t ask that, much as he had a mind to. He definitely disliked Harry’s tone. In the olden days, Draco would have definitely responded. Right now, so short after their implicit détente, it would have been the emotional equivalent of the Soviets invading Afghanistan. And unlike the Soviets and the Americans, neither Draco nor Harry had any inclination to avoid mutual destruction when they argued. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said finally. His apology was stiff. “I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position.”

Harry suddenly smiled. “I sound like an arse, don’t I? I haven’t even thanked you for helping us get out of there.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You did much more than I would have expected out of anyone, even out of some of my partners. You showed more initiative and quick thinking than someone more experienced in the field did. Or you had better luck.”

Draco scowled. “You just had to ruin it with that last line, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” Harry’s voice was teasing now. “You know how much I like to give you a hard time.”

And the happiness at being safe, at Harry being unharmed, broke through Draco’s emotional dam. Draco embraced Harry tight – he didn’t want to let go again, not ever –

“Draco?” Harry’s breath tickled Draco’s ears. “I think you cracked a rib.”

“Shit.” Draco fell away as if burned. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that. It’s stupid of me, I know, but I was just too relieved to get out of that place –”

Harry silenced Draco’s babble with hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’m kidding. Think of what they’ll say at HQ if they found out I was felled by a hug.”

Their faces were close enough to touch. Draco could count the individual lashes on Harry’s face, took in the warm green eyes like heated emeralds. Draco’s mouth parted slightly as he leaned in, the motion so practiced and natural, like the ghost of his past had possessed his body and was guiding it inexorably forward for a kiss –

The car bumped and halted.

“We’re here, boys.” The cheerful voice of the driver cut like a blast of mortar. “Home away from home.”

Harry was the first to turn away. “Yes,” he said, and he sounded like he was in the middle of a cold. “We are.”

Following Harry out of the car, Draco found himself confused and angry. He needed to sort out the past with Harry and needed to do it soon. The disperse emotions fizzed inside, like corked champagne ready to burst. 

It would have to wait, however, as Draco was faced with an army of angry military officials waiting for him at the entrance.

~~

Draco endured an hour of angry lecture by the camp commander while an enormous face of Shacklebolt watched, projected on the screen by the video-link. Harry sat in the corner, quiet, his face shadowed.

Draco was unapologetic, though he tried for everyone’s sake to project a meek and contrite demeanor. Somehow, he didn’t think it worked. 

In the old days, Draco might’ve been able to silence the commander with a judicious recounting of all the dinner guests that had graced Malfoy Manor. Or, failing that, threaten the man with his father. 

Those glory days of Malfoy prestige had passed, and Draco was forced to promise he would never abscond with Her Majesty’s property again and obey whatever orders were issued him in the future.

“Or that’ll mean the end of your stay here, young man,” the commander said, regarding Draco sternly. “Understand?”

“In any case,” Shacklebolt interrupted, “I think it is time to recall both of them home. Now that the Shield is gone, we need you back in England. Draco, we’ve finished transcribing and organizing your father’s papers. We have our analysts cross-referencing them with his past communications in our database. So far, nothing’s turned up.”

“Nothing?”

“No. But from what we understand about the Mors Mordre, England does appear to be their base of operations. It makes sense for both of you to return to assist our efforts.”

Draco wondered when his role had evolved from consulting on archaeological and family matters to helping the Secret Service apprehend a criminal organization. “What about the recovered artifacts?”

“They’ll be handed to the Afghan Ministry of Information and Culture,” the commander said.

Draco was disappointed. He had wanted to be involved in the monumental task of cataloging and restoring of them. But that would absorb all his attention and energy. Shacklebolt was right: the key to tracking down Mors Mordre was back in England, hidden somewhere in his family’s secrets.

“What’s the plan, then?” Draco asked. “What steps do we need to take next?”

“We need to track down Dolohov.” Harry spoke for the first time since the meeting began. Draco could not tell what Harry was thinking. Harry had left the corner now, yet his expression remained inscrutable. 

“He’ll probably hand it over to Riddle at the earliest opportunity,” Shacklebolt said. “It’s likely they’ll come after Draco again too. Here’s what we need to do: I’ll have the analysts track down Dolohov and Riddle’s whereabouts. In the meantime, Harry, stay close to Draco and protect him.”

Harry’s voice was neutral. “I understand.”

Shacklebolt addressed Draco. “I don’t know how exposed you feel, but it might be best to move out of Malfoy Manor for the time being. It’s too conspicuous and too tempting a target, even with all your state-of-the-art security. And it’ll be easier to reach you if you were close to HQ in London.”

“I can stay at my flat in Knightsbridge. Or the family townhouse in Belgravia.”

Shacklebolt shook his head. “Those are too obvious. Riddle will know about them, especially given how close your father and he were.”

Draco didn’t like the reminder of his father’s criminal past. “The unit at 2 Hyde then? It’s an investment property, but I can check if it’s unoccupied at the moment.”

“No,” Shacklebolt said. “Riddle might have an even better picture of your real estate holdings than us, and we know all about your properties in the UK.”

“Well, I don’t. How many properties do you own, Draco?” Harry asked curiously.

Draco waved his hand. “I’m not entirely certain myself. They’re all under various trusts and managed by trustees. Incidentally, I might have difficulty staying at a hotel. The trusts pay a substantial amount, but I’ve spent a lot this quarter on repairs and maintenance for the Manor. And a night at a hotel like the Athenaeum is steep. I can’t afford to stay there indefinitely.”

“Poor little rich boy,” Harry laughed and even Shacklebolt appeared amused.

“I had in mind one of our safe houses, but none of them are at the comfort you’re used to, Draco. That isn’t the biggest issue: you might have to continue your research and move back and forth in London. If Riddle is tracking you, then we might risk one of our safe houses exposed.”

“He can stay with me,” Harry said suddenly.

Draco looked at Harry in surprise. “But your flat might be exposed too.”

“I was thinking Grimmauld Place. It still has Sirius’s old security precautions set up and it’s not one of the Service’s.”

“Are you talking about your godfather’s old house?” Draco dimly recalled waiting in the rain outside while Harry raced in to fetch something. Draco had only the faintest impressive of a foreboding and unprepossessing structure. 

“That’s the one.”

“Are you sure?” Draco wasn’t certain himself. It was no shame to admit he enjoyed the finer aspects of life, and he wasn’t certain that Grimmauld Place had that. Though, Draco enjoyed life itself even more. 

“You’ll be safe there, Draco,” Shacklebolt said, misreading Draco’s ambiguity. “Sirius was one of us, and he was one of the best engineers we’ve ever had. He designed most of the current protections HQ has.”

“And I’ll be staying with you,” Harry said. “So you don’t need to worry about them breaking through.”

“You are?” Draco had assumed Harry would stay in his flat and occasionally come over to check in on Draco. “You don’t need to do that. I can take care of myself.”

“No.” Harry said with finality. “No matter how good you are, you don’t have the training I have. I’ve been trained to provide close protection to VIPs up to the PM.”

“Oh. Well, in that case.” Draco didn’t think he needed close protection at the level that the Prime Minister had, but he recognized that Harry was in his hero mode, and there was no mollifying that until Draco agreed. “Alright.” 

~~

London, UK:

He had the hands of an artist, long and thin, the fingers spreading like the legs of a spider. They tapped gently on the table right now in a pattern: index finger twice, ring finger once, pinky thrice, then middle finger once.

Tom Riddle watched his men under hooded eyes. The room was dark, though it did not discomfit him as it did some of his associates. They squirmed like vermin in a sewer, uneasy with the uncertainty and overwhelming tide of changes in the modern world. They needed light to guide their way out, and Riddle would be the one to provide that for them. 

He had always known he was destined for that. Not just for the ones sitting around the long oak table here, but for the world. The age they lived in had sunk too deep into depravity and the muck of so-called progressive ideas. Riddle would lead them into glory and renewal.

“How is progress?”

Riddle’s voice was like a blast of chill wind, and several of those sitting around the table shivered. Riddle made special note of them. They would need to be dealt with.

But at the moment, he had more pressing matters to attend. A woman who had remained still as stone now rose.

“My Lord, Dolohov is returning with the Shield. He is en route as we speak.”

“I was expecting him much earlier.” It was a simple statement with no reproach, but a shudder made its way around the room regardless. 

“I believe he was met with unforeseen obstacles, my lord. The Potter boy, for instance –”

“Potter’s interference should have been taken into account,” Riddle interrupted, and there was no denying the danger in his tone now. “After all, was not the plan crafted to snare him too?”

“He has proven as lucky as ever,” the woman replied without a flinch. Her face caught the city lights sliding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She had thick black hair and deeply hooded eyes, and would have been considered a great beauty once, were she not reduced to a gaunt and skeletal appearance. 

Riddle considered her in silence. “Thank you, Bellatrix,” he said at last. “Your report has been most edifying.”

“There is another matter, my lord. Dolohov reports that the Malfoy boy was involved. He had been instrumental in the plan’s failure.”

The finger movements stopped. “Malfoy?”

“Yes. Lucius’ son. Draco Malfoy. He is, I believe, currently an appraiser with Christie’s, though he has some field experience as an archaeologist working with the UNESCO task force in Iraq in 2003.”

“We tried to invite him into our fold, have we not?”

Bellatrix nodded. “Yes, my lord. Dolohov believes he has the papers regarding the Shield which disappeared around the time Lucius defected.”

“And now you say he is proving to be an obstacle.” Riddle’s eyes glittered. 

“Should we have him removed?” Bellatrix asked. “It’s likely now he’s under Secret Service protection, so he might be less accessible than before, but it’s nothing our agents can’t handle.”

“No. He piques my interest.” Riddle considered his men. “Double the effort to recover the papers. And as insurance, retrace our communications with the ones whose research led us to the Shield.”

“They’re difficult to track, my lord. It might bring more delays, not to mention additional demands for renumerations,” Bellatrix said. 

“Money is of no matter,” Riddle said. “My patience, on the other hand, is.”

“I will make the necessary arrangements, my lord.” 

Bellatrix continued with the lesser items on the agenda. Riddle tuned her out. She was a most admirable lieutenant, able to inspire fear in his men, but not of the paralyzing variety. It simply motivated them to work more efficiently. 

And they would need to do so – this project with the Shield of Achilles had already taken too long. Riddle was not a young man; despite keeping himself fit through a strenuous physical regimen and a cocktail of experimental anti-aging treatments, Riddle’s body would not stand the test of time. 

He had achieved much in this life, he freely acknowledged that. He had slowed the march of degenerates around the world through necessary means. But as always, the work of the virtuous was never complete, and it was time to step from the shadows. Secrecy and subtlety were all very well, but at times, a frontal assault was needed. A display of power.

That was what Bellatrix understood best: the ability of strength and terror to propel men to their best. She had entered his service with a rather memorable beginning, shooting a man point blank when he mistook her to be a secretary and asked her to bring him coffee.

She always did have a flair for the dramatic, Riddle mused. Perhaps it would be helpful his time around too. 

Once he had the Shield, he would finally be free of the constraints that necessity had imposed on him. He would no longer need to skulk in the shadows, waiting for his plans top blossom.

Riddle stood up. He wore all black and it was like watching a shadow unfurl. He walked to the window. Through it, the Millennium Eye spun, the spokes gleaming in the night, and a little farther, Big Ben and the House of Parliament. London spread out before him, a field of gems that was ready to be plucked.

Almost, but not quite.

Riddle turned his attention back to the table. Even the most well-grown plants needed some pruning. 

“Bellatrix,” he called out. “There’s something I need you to do for me.”

He was gratified to see the gleam in her eyes. That was one thing he could always count on about her. She always anticipated his needs.

She tapped the men who displayed their lack of self-control during the meeting. “Come along,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you boys.”

~~

The first thing Draco did upon stepping inside was sneeze.

More accurately, it was an explosion which set off a chain reaction of dust erupting. It took a good time minutes before Draco could breathe properly.

“I don’t suppose your boss gave us a stipend for a cleaner, did they?” Draco asked. 

“Or you could pick a duster and do it yourself.”

Draco made an expression of mock horror. “There must be centuries of accumulated grime here. How long has anyone lived here?”

“It’s been five years,” Harry said. “When I was in between places at the time ….” 

“It’s not that bad,” Draco conceded. He knew that along with the filth, being in this place stirred unwelcome memories in Harry. “There’s a lot of interesting objects in here. I feel some of my coworkers at Christie’s will definitely want to pay a visit sometime.”

Harry waved a hand. “They’re welcome to it. Sirius never liked this house, and neither do I.”

Alright, so that didn’t work. Harry, if anything, was even more morose. “Maybe it’ll keep me busy,” Draco said. “In between all the cleaning.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I would think you were joking about the cleaning except I remember how much of a nut you were when we lived together.” His mood had improved a little. 

“There better not be any of your damn socks lying around,” Draco warned, affecting a cheer despite his own misgivings. It was all too real, the danger he and Harry were in, the reason why they had to hide out here. 

Draco distracted himself exploring the house. Though in a rather insalubrious area, it was large and spacious, with three storeys filled with rooms stuffed with collections from previous inhabitants. 

Harry showed Draco to where he’d be sleeping. It smelled of mothballs, with a tattered four-post bed with faded velvet curtains. It was something that belonged in a museum, not in a bedroom.

“I’ll leave you to unpack then,” Harry said. He hesitated at the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I’ll be sure to,” Draco said, laying out his suits. He could only hope he would have an opportunity to wear them again. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to bed,” Harry said. 

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I’m jetlagged.” And Harry did look exhausted. Dark circles ringed his eyes. 

Oh. That made sense. “Well, sleep well then.”

Draco was left alone as Harry left.

It was hard to not worry about Harry. He had been in poor spirits ever since they returned to London. 

At first, Draco had assumed it was because Harry missed the action associated with being in the field. That didn’t make sense upon reflection. Harry was bent on tracking and dismantling Mors Mordre; that wouldn’t change depending on what country he was in. And like they had surmised, England was probably the base of operation for the group. It was here, more than anywhere else, that Harry had the best opportunity to end them. 

No, it was something else. 

Draco didn’t know how to ask. He avoided conversations like these with a ten-feet pole. And he worried that he was part of the reason why Harry seemed so unreadable these days. 

Draco crawled into bed. It was warmer than he expected and the mattress firm. He laid down and thought about Harry, about the events of the past week. 

It was strange to realize that only a week had passed since Draco had stumbled upon Dolohov breaking in. Since then, life transformed into unrecognizable form. Or perhaps it reverted ... the reappearance of Harry, being shaken out of his staid routine of office-sleep-Manor. His pulse jumped. It was exciting, and strangely addictive, like a sugar rush or the flood of endorphins after finishing an intense run. 

Of course, Draco thought dryly, that’s only if you survive.   
And now that Draco had seen Harry in action, he could understand the appeal of a man in uniform. Not just the aesthetics of it – Draco had always known the attraction of that. It was the controlled power with which Harry moved, how he took down those men, that lit an ember smoldering since the dawn of time. 

He would never confess to being aroused by such Neanderthal behavior, but he did. Draco’s hands drifted down as he thought of Harry. Those eyes, burning brighter than the sun in the desert as they looked at him… The broad shoulders, the hands roughened from the elements as Harry pulled Draco down – Draco arched, stroking himself quicker as he imagined those hands on him.

His back arched. Memory provided what reality could not – the ghostly traces of how Harry used to trail his mouth down Draco’s shoulder as they pulled together firm and tight. Harry always had a streak of teasing, with a tendency to slow down at the most inopportune moments, namely when Draco was gasping and on the verge of losing control. 

In the shadows, it was easy to picture Harry’s face above him, the invisible pressures the weight of Harry’s chest. Draco pulled and flexed, losing himself –

He came with a splash of liquid heat. Draco exhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath. It had been a while. An eternity rather. Draco was on the verge of thinking his libido had died out altogether, withered like the orchid Pansy had gifted him last month. 

Cleaning himself with a dirty rag he found in the corner of the room, Draco felt bereft. Instead of the relaxed lightness of post-coital release, he was drained. He and Harry were done. Over. That chapter had not been closed as it was slammed shut. Even if they could be civil again, Draco doubted they would ever recover the same level of intimacy. 

It was just a fluke, Draco decided. It was the combination from the adrenaline of survival and Harry’s proximity. They were both young and physically fit; it made sense that Draco, for all that he had been living like an old man, would have his head turned. It was nothing a good sleep wouldn’t fix.

With that in mind, Draco closed his eyes.

~~

Shacklebolt’s analysts had done a good job. They had digitized and organized Lucius’ papers in any way Draco could think of: alphabetically (beginning with the opening line on each), chronologically, and thematically (though Draco rather imagined they all shared the overall premise of Lucius’s disgruntlement at the world).

Even onscreen, it made for dull reading. Draco was familiar enough with his father’s opinions on the entire range of possible topics, and reviewing them was no more pleasant when viewed on his laptop. 

At least printed words couldn’t raise the decibel to enforce their point.

“Any progress?” Harry appeared in the doorway. Draco rubbed his eyes. Harry was dressed in a toned-down suit that still accentuated the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. He looked … good.

“I haven’t seen you wear a suit in … well, never actually.” When Draco used to invite Harry as his escort for formal events, Harry usually showed up in his dress uniform. 

Harry grimaced. “Ah … well, civilian life. I need to go into HQ. You know, for work. How are you holding up?”

“I called to let them know I’d be working from home for the next few weeks,” Draco said. “I told them I have a new project with an undisclosed university that I’m consulting for. These auction houses usually like their staff to burnish their credentials.”

Harry nodded. “I think it’s still safe for you to go out, but you should minimize your exposure. And be careful with your calls. Did you use the burner phone I gave you?”

“Yes.” Draco looked at Harry. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’m not going to do anything reckless.” He waved at the printout of his father’s papers, the ones he had already read on his laptop. “I have that to keep me occupied for a good week or so.”

Harry eyed those with an expression one usually reserved for trips to the dentist. “Better you than me.”

“I’m also doing more research on the Shield.” Draco tapped his laptop. “I’m scouring the web and I’ll try to track down some of those people who’ve been sprouting the more outlandish theories about it. Hopefully, it’ll give us a better idea of what Dolohov and Riddle want to do with it.”

“You mean, beyond the fact that they thought it existed?”

Draco grinned. “Yes. And I’ll try to contact my … ahh … more disreputable sources, about artifact smuggling. See where the biggest leak of Afghan artifacts are coming from. Hopefully, that’ll give us another lead to where Mors Mordre is.”

“Follow the money. That’s a good idea. You know, you have a talent for this.”

“What, tracking down the provenance of historical artifacts? It’s part of my job, you know. At least this time I don’t have to fill out a pile of paperwork.” Draco eyed Harry thoughtfully. “But I also don’t have a secretary anymore either. Unless you want to volunteer?”

Harry laughed. “Definitely not. I’ll see you when I get back, Draco. Don’t let any strangers in.”

Harry hadn’t been kidding about the house being secure. Not only did it have a highly sensitive alarm that would snare a fly sneaking in through the window, but all the entrances were able to be sealed by bulletproof barriers. The front door in particular was welded steel, the same kind bank vaults used. Cameras ringed the perimeter. 

Inside the house, if one didn’t disable the security quickly, the door handles would shock the intruder and there were nozzles that released tear gas when one hit the panic button installed in every room. 

Draco had to admit it was impressive. Overly done — a diplomatic way of saying paranoid — but Draco was considering upgrading the Manor security along these lines. 

“Sirius had a very interesting past,” Harry explained when Draco stared at him dumbfounded as Harry showed Draco the system. “He singlehandedly escaped one of those gulags in the Siberia, the ones that the Soviets used to house spies they didn’t exchange.”

Draco supposed he couldn’t fault Sirius for being cautious. 

He waved goodbye to Harry, conscious of how much he wanted to drag his lips across Harry’s back. Draco flushed, remembering his wank last night. It wouldn’t do to want Harry. Not at all.

It was around midday by the time Draco finished reading through all the materials. His head buzzed; it was filled with memories, and not the ones he needed. Draco could not help but think about the arguments he and Lucius had had. There were also glimpses of the more tender man Lucius had been: Lucius had written of how much he missed his wife, how he wished his son would move back from London and how he kept Draco’s rooms ready in anticipation for every return. 

Draco stood. His eyes stung. It was stifling in the house. It was like an invisible vise squeezed his ribs until he was short of breath, and his skin crawled until all he wanted to do scratch it off.

Draco forced himself to take in a deep breath. Perhaps it was time to learn more about the Shield the old-fashion way: by consulting with an expert. Not a historian or an archaeologist specializing in objects from that era, but someone who knew and understood the murkier world of conspiracy theories and was less skeptical about the correlation between legends and reality.

He took out his cellphone and searched through the contacts. The call went through on the third ring.  
“Hi. I was wondering if you had some free time this afternoon. Really, you do? That’s wonderful. Do you want to meet around at the old place? Yes, that café that you like. Or we can go to a Pret if that’s easier? No, you hate Pret? Well, the café then. See you soon.”

Draco hung up and grinned. Some people never changed.

~~

It was a small, out of the way café nestled in the center of Bloomsbury. The streets were stuffed with people. Coming out of the Tube, Draco was shoved into the middle of a sea of humanity: tourists eager to see the British Museum, or students on their way to the various universities and colleges in the area.

His destination was around the corner, overlooked by most in favor of the Starbucks and Pret a Mangers. Draco didn’t understand why; this café served better coffee and had the best tea cakes in the entire district.

A blond woman with an ethereal air waited for him at a table.

“Hello, Draco.” They greeted each other with air kisses. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hello, Luna.” Draco sat down across from Luna Lovegood, his erstwhile colleague at the British Museum and former classmate. They had been in the same cohort for their graduate program, and Draco had come to like her despite her tendency to suspend disbelief in the most unlikely of phenomenon. It was through her that he had learned of the existence for the theories concerning the Shield of Achilles. 

She was also the only one to object to Draco’s termination when news of his father’s arrest broke. That had been the glue that cemented their friendship. 

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked, sipping at her espresso. “Do you want to work for the Museum again? I can recommend you to an opening, but it’ll be junior to what you should receive.”

“No.” Draco shook his head. There was too much bad blood there. Draco didn’t think he could ever walk past the porticoed façade without that burn of anger. “I have a research question actually.”

“Oh?” Luna raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said that my research often veered into the ‘fanciful suppositions with no realistic backing.’”

“Well ….” Draco didn’t want to say that wasn’t far off the mark, especially given her work as a professor of the history of the occult. “You’re not bound by the narrow thinking of some of your colleagues.”  
She narrowed her eyes, looking for an instant very different from her typical dream-like state. “I suppose I’ll take that. But what’s this research question you have? I wasn’t aware appraisers at auction houses needed to publish like those in academia.”

“It’s ….” Draco hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much he should divulge. Or if he were even allowed to, given much of the business he was involved in related to the Secret Service. But there was only so much information he could find on the internet, and Shacklebolt’s men were more adept at eavesdropping than historical research. “What can you tell me about the Shield of Achilles? Beyond the basics. I already know the basics.”

“You mean, what the description in the Iliad tells you?”

“Yes. Beyond that.”

“Why? Have you found a clue to its existence? Or better yet, its whereabouts?”

Draco did, in fact, had many clues about the Shield’s existence, like the fact that he had held it in his own hands. Disappointingly, he did not have any idea about its current location except that it was likely headed to the hands of a madman.

“Let’s just say I have seen material which makes me a convert to the belief of its existence,” Draco said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Why do people want it so badly? Beyond the obvious historical value. It can’t really have mystical powers, can it?”

Except Draco had experienced something – otherworldly – when he had touched the Shield. He still didn’t know what to make of it. Here in bustling London, surrounded by the solidness of modern life, with the grind of the espresso machine in the background and the beeps of cellphones, it was hard to think that Draco had felt a surge of mystical power. 

“Well, if you believe the myths, it was a gift from the gods. So it probably would have powers, though not in the way one would think about it in this age of Dungeons and Dragons.” She smiled gently. “It would be much more subtle.”

“But you’re saying that it could have powers. I heard some of the stories, that it can gift the holder with foresight. How does that play into the myths? Achilles was a warrior, not a seer.”

“Anticipating your opponent’s movement in battle can be a huge advantage,” Luna said. “Even being able to do so for a second.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m a pacifist myself.”

Draco took a sip of his coffee before it went cold. It would make sense, then, to explain what the Shield did when he was examining it.

“What else?”

“There’s a rumor that its full clairvoyant abilities can be unlocked by a sequence on the Shield.”

“Yes, I know that,” Draco said impatiently. “What does that mean?”

Luna leveled a glare. “If you can be patient, I’m going to explain it to you.”

Draco held up his hands. “Okay, sorry.”

“The code on the Shield is organized by astrological and allegorical references in the depictions engraved in it. From what I remember, it has a lot to do with that, and also the mathematics of certain time measurements. The Greeks believed that mathematics held the key to the universe. It made sense for them that to link math, astronomy and astrology, and mythology in a way that we don’t today.”

“Greek mathematics is also linked to philosophy,” Draco said. “Pythagoras also influenced Plato with his thinking, and Pythagoras was a firm believer in what we call numerology today.”

Luna nodded, pleased. “Maybe I should recommend you to a fellowship in the Occult Studies. We’ve recently began one, and you seem like you have a mind for these sorts of inquiries.”

“That’s a kind offer, but I’m much too busy at the moment to return to school,” Draco said quickly. “But what do you mean by full clairvoyant powers?”

“Well, the ability to see into any time and place you want, not just a peek into a few seconds during battle.” Luna drained the rest of her coffee. “It’ll be an invaluable boon to anyone.”

Especially a madman with delusions of world domination.

~~

“What were you thinking, running around London like that?” 

Harry paced back and forth the room, his face thunderous. 

“I think you’re being overdramatic,” Draco said. “It isn’t like anyone would try anything dangerous in broad daylight. And London is one of the most surveilled cities in the world. No one would be so stupid to pull a dangerous stunt.”

“I can point you to six different headlines in today’s newspaper that argues otherwise.”

Draco rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he liked overprotective Harry better than morose Harry. “I took a calculated risk, alright? I guessed that nothing would have happened to me in the middle of one of the busiest districts in London near some of the most secure sites in the world.”  
“Then you’re bad at math,” Harry snapped. He rubbed his temples. “And then you come to HQ of all places. Really?”

Draco had gone straight to find Shacklebolt after his conversation with Luna. At the time, it had seemed like an astounding discovery, and Draco had wanted to share that straight away. In hindsight, it perhaps could have been extrapolated from what they already knew with a bit more research. Shacklebolt, however, still thanked Draco with the gravitas of the Queen awarding a CBE. 

Harry, on the other hand, had not been so grateful. Hence the current scene.

“I take back everything I said about you being able to handle this business,” Harry said, still fuming. “You’re clearly too impulsive.”

Draco thought that was a bit rude. “That’s ironic, coming from you.” He sat on Harry’s desk. “Who was it that sent the entire Hogwarts into a frenzy because he wanted to explore the so-called haunted house on the edge of the forest grounds? Or tackled and held down the robber who broke in during our seventh year?”

Harry glowered at Draco. He looked not unattractive, even when – especially when – he bared all that nice teeth, Draco decided. Draco forbore to share that little insight with Harry, though. Draco was a gentleman; he wouldn’t use underhanded tactics to unsettle his opponent. 

“I was a child,” Harry said finally. Quietly. “And it’s different. This is bigger than just me or you, Draco. Why do you think Kingsley’s so worried about this group? It’s because whether or not this Shield does have that kind of power, Riddle and his minions can do a lot of damage.”

“I know.” Some of the fight had left Draco. “That’s why I came all the way here instead waiting for you to return tonight. It seemed like a piece of information that needed to be shared straight away.”

“I don’t doubt your good intentions,” Harry said. “None of us here do. It’s just – well – I got worried.”

The admission coming from Harry somehow warmed Draco better than the gloves he wore, though Harry’s mouth twisted in the semblance of having tasted a lemon. 

“Look, I’m sorry.” Draco was mature enough to know it was his turn to be conciliatory. “I know you’re worried, but I can take care of myself. I promise. I’m not some helpless waif to be shepherded about.”

“No, I suppose you’re not.” Draco swore he saw a half-smile on Harry’s face.

“What do you plan to do now?” Draco asked. He checked his watch. “It’s almost time to get off work, right?”

“I can leave whenever I want, actually,” Harry said. And now Draco was certain Harry did smile. “Perks of a nontraditional job. Although I haven’t realized how much I missed having an office, a secretary and receptionists, all the works.”

“Now you see why I like my job.” Draco grinned. “Do you want to grab some dinner?”

“Dinner?” Harry seemed surprised. 

“Yes, dinner. As in the meal people eat after lunch. Though it is a bit early.”

“I thought you always said eating dinner before the sun sets is gauche.”

Draco eyed Harry in annoyance. “Of all things, you remember this?”

“It’s one of your many tidbits of wisdoms that I’ve imbibed in our acquaintance,” Harry said, chuckling. “But I’m game. Let me just finish signing this.” He reached over for his pen, which incidentally laid beyond where Draco was sitting on the desk.

Draco went still as Harry’s hand brushed over his thigh. He couldn’t help it – all the blood in Draco’s body seemed to rush downward, and Draco’s brain fizzed out. 

The proximity was too much – Draco leaned in, his lips making contact with Harry before Draco even registered his body was moving.

If that tiny touch from earlier had overloaded Draco, then he didn’t know what to term this. Hallucinogenic ecstasy, perhaps. Draco couldn’t stop himself from drinking in the sensations, one hand automatically going to cup Harry’s chin as the other held himself steady on the desk.

Harry responded in kind. He deepened the kiss, one hand – the one that began it all – still resting on Draco’s leg, the other pulling Draco down.

It was a sort of physical thirst, the need strumming through taut nerves. Draco wanted more; he shifted into a more comfortable position, his legs dangling over the desk, one hand grabbing at Harry’s tie. It wasn’t well knotted, coming apart at the first instance. Fumbling fingers tried to unbutton the collar as Harry tugged at Draco’s hair.

There was a loud clatter. They had knocked over the heavy book that Harry had been using as a paperweight for his stacks of paper. That broke the spell. 

Draco wondered how it would look to Harry’s secretary sitting just outside the office. The mussed hair, the raw lips, the disheveled clothes.   
Harry’s office was soundproofed, and Harry had drawn the curtains when he had taken Draco inside to shout at Draco. Yet there was always the danger of someone ignoring common courtesy and barging in.

It rather appealed to Draco. 

But of course, it was the moment his mind regained its function, and he backed off Harry. 

“Sorry,” Draco said, wiping his mouth. “That was uncalled for.”

“Where do you want to go for dinner?” Harry asked abruptly.

Alright … if that’s the way you want to play it. Draco had no problem matching Harry’s tone with his own matter-of-fact manner. “Anywhere is fine. I’m not super picky at the moment.”

“Why do I have a feeling you’ll mock me for my lack of culinary refinement after we get there?”

“I will not,” Draco said, in a miffed tone. “I never do that.”

“That’s not what I remember.”

“Harry –” What was Draco going to ask? Why Harry had returned the kiss when he gave no other indication that he even welcomed Draco’s attention? Or that question buried even deeper as a bone of contention: why did Harry leave in the first place?

One answer Draco did have now, however, was that he hadn’t lost his feelings for Harry. It had just been buried under all the resentment and unhappiness that followed. Draco had attempted to shovel those emotions away, but they were rooted too deep and were poking through the dirt again.

Draco swallowed, suddenly uncertain. What was he doing? It was like he was on a car careening out of control, and the exhilaration, the trill of the speed was only a temporary excitement before he crashed.

“Draco?” Harry waved his hand. He had, Draco saw, reknotted his tie, but it was poorly done, and the collar remained opened.

“Come here.” Draco’s voice came out in a rasp. “You can’t tie a tie to save your life. I’ll do it.”

“I am better at tying ropes than neckties,” Harry acknowledged. 

“I’ll bet.” Draco had a sudden vision of himself bound before Harry, Harry fisting his hair while Draco arched, exposing his neck to Harry.

He blinked hard. Draco needed to stop these ridiculous fantasies. It would only bring him misery in the end. And, Draco had never been keen on the whole master and dominatrix business before. He must really be losing his head.

“You were always a lot better at doing this,” Harry said. It was in a lower octave than usual. Draco’s hands were at work, and Draco tried to concentrate. A half-Windsor wasn’t even complicated, but Draco’s attention kept slipping. 

“You really should learn how to do this yourself,” Draco huffed. “It really isn’t that difficult.” Their closeness made it difficult for Draco to finish. He kept redoing the last step, the smell of Harry’s soap in his nose. 

This was even more intimate than their kiss earlier; Draco took in the faint stubble that traced the sharp edges of Harry’s jaw, and the green eyes that flickered. Draco wanted to kiss Harry again, press his mouth, consequences be damned. It was sweet agony to exercise so much self-control.

“There.” Draco stepped back finally. The tie was still askew, though a marked improvement from earlier. It wouldn’t pass muster for his father’s dinners at Malfoy Manor, but Draco didn’t think anyone else would give a damn.

“Thanks.” Harry smoothed out his shirt, looking self-conscious. It was funny to see someone who took out an entire camp of terrorists acting like a shy little boy. It was endearing, and it went to Draco’s heart faster than anything else. 

They walked out of the office together, enjoying the London night air. It was a coolant to Draco’s overheated skin. He inhaled, luxuriating in the messiness of it, picking up the hints of petrol, and strangely, of the contrasting flowers.

“How was your day?” Draco asked as they walked along the Embankment. Big Ben glowed in the background. They had neglected to discuss the niceties, Harry being too busy lecturing Draco on matters of safety and then that kiss at the office.

“It went well,” Harry said. “Nothing particularly exciting. They had me going over reports from the listening posts all over the world.”

“Found anything?”

Harry shook his head. “All the chatter we picked up suggest that something big is going to happen, but nothing is clear enough for us to take action on.” 

“Do we have a location? Or any idea where Dolohov is?” 

“No. But then, I’m not surprised. He was always good at hiding.”  
Draco wanted to wring his hands in frustration. The longer this dragged, the more anxious Draco became. It was the wait, not the actual danger, that drained Draco’s spirit. 

Not that the risk was to be taken lightly. Draco’s hands flexed from the memory of being bound in that cave. 

“You didn’t bring a jacket,” Harry remarked, noticing. 

“Ah.” Draco was only wearing a light sweater, barely enough during the day, but wholly inadequate at night. “I hadn’t expected to be out this late.”

“We should’ve taken a taxi or even the Tube. Spring in London is still damn cold at night.” Harry draped his suit jacket over Draco. His hand lingered on Draco’s shoulders. It was warmer than all the fabrics added together. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Draco said. “I –”

“Are you going to tell me it’s plebeian for Malfoys to get cold now?” Harry asked with amusement. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said, but he smiled. “I was going to just point out I can handle a short walk. We are almost there, aren’t we?”

“Just a short bit,” Harry said. “It’s a nice walk though, even with the cold.” His hand bumped Draco’s, and in the passing of the car lights, Draco saw him smile.

The lamps threw soft orange warmth over the pavements, and there were still pedestrians bustling around. It wasn’t that late or empty but walking along with Harry seemed like its own little world. 

Then –

“Oh. We’re eating here?”


	3. Chapter 3

It was the restaurant where they had their first date in England. It was busy; a small queue wound its way around the lamppost, and the interior was filled with patrons, the staff milling around them like bees around flowers. 

“I couldn’t think of anywhere else,” Harry said sheepishly. “It’s one of the few places where I know you and I will both unconditionally like.”

“It’s quite full in there,” Draco said, not wishing for conversation to stray beyond the practical. Even so, a lump lodged in his throat. “We’re going to have to wait half an hour by the looks of it.”

“Kingsley knows the owner,” Harry said, and he led Draco in, ignoring the scandalized looks and scowls of the ones waiting for to be seated.

They were seated with remarkable courtesy, considering that they had only arrived and cut off the dozen or so people who had arrived before them.

“It’s usually me who do this sort of thing,” Draco remarked once they were ensconced in a secluded area slightly to the side. It didn’t offer the best view of the windows, but it was remarkably private, quiet enough that one were able to hold an intimate conversation. “Barge into restaurants and demand to be seated, I mean.”

“I remember.” Harry hid a smile behind his water. “It would have been next to the definition of “prat” in the dictionary.”

“I resent that.” Draco scowled at Harry. “I tipped very generously, I’ll have you know. Every time.”

“Well, it’s my treat this round.” When Draco started to object, Harry interrupted him. “I insist. Besides, I’m planning to expense this meal.”

“Does this mean it’s a working dinner?” 

“If you want.” Harry picked up his menu, avoiding Draco’s gaze.

“Or we could talk about what happened.”

Surprisingly, it was Draco who had finally gathered up his nerve and said it. It surprised him as much as it did Harry. They were both reticent in their own way to openly express how they felt. 

The second surprise was when Harry agreed.

“Where do you want to start?” Harry regarded Draco with a patient expression. “You kissed me first, remember?”  
“You weren’t unreceptive to it,” Draco said. It was on the verge of his tongue to tell Harry that Draco missed him. But Draco’s courage only extended so far. So he waited.

And waited.

Harry broke the silence. “We’re not a talkative duo, are we?”

“No.” They weren’t. Even back when they had been dating, they had never been the type of couple to fill the space with empty chatter. Draco tried again. “I miss this. Us.”

“Me too.” Harry sounded wistful. “I really do too.”

“Then why did you leave?” The question was out of Draco’s mouth like a bullet. “Why did you go when I needed you the most?”

Harry shifted his eyes downward. “I’m sorry about that.”

Sorry? Was that one word all Harry was going to say? It didn’t even begin to cover the abandonment and confusion that Harry had left behind. And it didn’t answer any questions either. 

Draco didn’t know whether to press or not. It was already a coup to have scored an apology like this. And from his reaction, it was clear that it had churned up emotions in its wake, like waves after a typhoon. 

Maybe Draco should just leave it at that. It didn’t do any good to raise the subject again, more the reverse. And he and Harry had been interacting like — well, Draco didn’t quite know how to term it, but it was a delicate balance that Draco didn’t know how to maneuver. 

“What are you ordering?” he asked, trying on a smile that signaled he accepted the end of that particular conversation without rancor. He didn’t, and he knew he wouldn’t fool Harry. They could talk about this some other night. 

They moved on to lighter fare, Draco’s mood improving when the food arrived. He savored the richness of the laksa broth, his worries evaporating as they continued to talk. 

It wasn’t so difficult, with a relaxing ambiance, good cooking, and strong drinks, for them both to relax. They chatted about their old school days, gossips they heard from their old friends and acquaintances, each knowing to skirt the choppy waters of their past and the dangers they were in now. 

“How’re your friends?” Harry asked. “I think I heard Gregory Goyle recently starting his own builder’s firm. It was in the alumni newsletter.”

Goyle had been part of Draco’s little clique, both being of the same Hogwarts House and the same age. He was one of the few Draco kept in touch with, though it mostly was limited to contracting for the Manor’s repairs.

“He’s well.” Draco took a sip of his lychee and elderflower drink. It flowed down smooth and then – it exploded. 

“Strong?” Harry took a look at Draco’s face and laughed. “I think they changed their drinks menu.”

“Come here often, do you?” Draco didn’t do so well in keeping the note of jealousy out of his voice.

Harry directed a level gaze at Draco. “For work. Kingsley comes here often. It’s close enough to walk and it isn’t somewhere that stands out. Not a very see-and-be-seen place.”

“Oh.” Draco relaxed marginally. “But – do you have to work late often?” It wasn’t what he wanted to ask but their unspoken agreement to avoid contention still held. 

“Unfortunately, the wicked never sleep, and that means we don’t get to either,” Harry said. “It’s not like we can order takeout. You saw our entrance.”

“Yes. Having fish and chips sent to a lavatory would be a bit odd.” Draco had thought it strange when the directions Shacklebolt gave him led him to the entrance of a public toilet. He had only entered out of curiosity when the lights went out with a whirl of machinery. He had found himself in a spacious, if rather utilitarian, foyer where the receptionist showed him to Shacklebolt’s office. “I would have thought you would’ve been at that monstrosity at Vauxhall Cross. I had hoped to sneak a peek inside.”

“That’s only for the public,” Harry said. “I do have clearance to that building though. If you want to go see it, we could sometime.”

“Then it’s a date.” 

They both blushed. 

“I mean – that is – it sounds lovely,” Draco said, recognizing how stilted he sounded. “I look forward to seeing how horrendous it is on the inside too.”

“You’re so dramatic, Draco.” Harry laughed. “It isn’t that bad. Sometimes, you have to look past appearances and your own prejudices to see the good within.”

Draco looked at Harry sourly. “Thanks for that life lesson, Mother Theresa.”

Harry winked at Draco. “I’m the wise one, it’s true.” 

“How’s your friends?” Draco asked, trying hard to not roll his eyes. He could feel his lips dancing, however. “Granger and the Weasel – Weasley – and all of your Gryffindor lackies?”

“They’re all very well. Not many of them know I’m back. Part of the secrecy and element of surprise, you understand. Hermione and Ron know, but none of the other Weasleys do.” Harry speared a prawn. “She asked about you. Hermione.”

“What? Why?” 

“She was worried about you. She hadn’t heard about you in a long time, and she became concerned at the rumors.”

“Again the question: why?”

“You have got to stop thinking all my friends hate you, Draco. She’s actually quite fond of you. Once you’ve gotten over that prat phase.”

Draco didn’t deign to take Harry up on that point. “I was never a prat. Just misunderstood.”

“Right. A regular Holden Caulfield.”

“I’ve never actually read Catcher in the Rye,” Draco said. He sniffed. “I hate American literature. So tedious. Always going on and on about something angst related to the human condition.”

“True.” Harry nodded. “I can always see you as a Janeite.” Harry raked his eyes over Draco. “I think you would look rather fetching in a bonnet.”

“Please. Have you seen me in a frock coat and breeches? I was almost an extra on one of those BBC remakes of some Austen novel they come out with periodically.”

“That’s … really an image. You’ll have to show me one day.”

Draco had a flash of himself and Harry, both in Regency costumes, kissing under the large oak on Manor grounds. It … wasn’t unpleasant.

“You’ll have to go first,” Draco said, hiding his embarrassment. He really needed to clear his head of Harry. “I want to see you and your knobby knees in breeches.”

Harry glowered and they continued bantering until the bill came.

“Thank you for dinner,” Draco said as they waited in the carpark for a taxi. The night had deepened until the sky was a swath of black with smears of light from the city. It was decidedly cold now, and Draco, lit by the warmth of good company and cuisine, didn’t want to extinguish it by walking. “I would normally suggest drinks and clubbing at Heaven, but it seems too late.” He smiled ruefully. “I think I’m getting old.”

“Is that your usual routine? Dinner, followed by drinks and a night at a club?” Harry asked curiously. His tone suppressed an emotion Draco wasn’t sure he was able to identify properly.

“If you’re asking if that’s how I pick up men, no. I haven’t – well,” Draco laughed. It came out like a sharp crack of a whip. “I haven’t seen anyone in over five years.” Not counting the few random encounters, Draco had been living life that would have rivaled a monk.

“Oh.” There was a beat of a pause. “I haven’t either.”

“It must be rather hard in the desert,” Draco said, trying to ignore an inexplicable floating in his chest. 

They got into the taxicab, speeding along Embankment. Draco’s head drifted pleasantly from the aftereffects of the alcohol. Looking out, Draco took in the flaring pinpricks that pierced through the glass. 

He sank back into the seat, his consciousness flowing like the sand from an hourglass … he was tired, and he leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder, allowing the movement of the car to lull him ….

It jerked and Draco’s face hit the front seat. Next to him, Harry dropped instinctively, ducking. That saved him. Where the driver’s head had been was now shot through with a bullet.

His blood stopped. Draco couldn’t breathe; taking even one inhale would mean smelling the mix of gas and burnt metal, and overpowering it all, the coppery scent of blood. He fought to keep down the dinner he’d just ate. 

Shot, shot, shot. The driver had been shot. And that meant that –

Harry recovered first. He maneuvered himself to the front of the car. There was a snick indicating the door was unlocked.

“Duck!” he yelled, and with a kick, Harry pushed the driver’s body out and slipped himself in.

Draco didn’t hesitate to obey, pushing his head down beneath the seats. The metallic scent was even stronger, and Draco gagged. His control came back just in time, even as spots dotted his vision. Blood was everywhere, moving in a creeping spread. 

There was a second volley. Even as they hit, the car began to move again, screeching to a start. It turned sharply from the curb where the car had rammed into, when – the driver – Draco couldn’t think. His mind blanked, he only managed to hold onto the seat legs for stability. It was by some miracle that his hands hadn’t been thrown off by the speed with which Harry drove. It was a miracle that the bullets hadn’t made it into the car again. 

“Draco!” Harry’s voice cut through, loud and panicked. “Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

It was with a titanic effort that Draco managed to pull his mind back from the bog. 

“I – what – not hurt,” he stammered out. He choked air down his throat, breathing from the mouth so to not smell the blood. Belatedly, he realized his hand was sticking to the carpet. He pulled it up. It was slick and oily, the red already oxidizing into a darker color.

“Right.” The edge of panic faded. Harry spoke in rapid bursts of words. “Call Kingsley. We need backup. I’m going to get out of here, into traffic and then to somewhere safe. Can you handle that?”

The car careened into the traffic while Harry issued his orders. Angry honks and sharp shrieks from protesting aluminum created a din that pierced Draco’s ears.

He dialed with numb hands.

“Draco?” Shacklebolt picked up the phone, sounding deep and reassuring. Draco’s heartbeat relaxed a fraction of a fraction of a second. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone just shot at us.” The words were surreal. If Draco hadn’t just witnessed it, if he didn’t have one hand squarely in the middle of the blood, he would hardly believe it.

“Where are you?” Shacklebolt’s voice suddenly sharpened. “I’ll send backup.”

“We’ve already left the scene,” Harry called out from the front. “You’ll need to send your men over to take charge. There’s a body there that needs to be taken care of, and we don’t know if there are any other injured.”

“Alright. We’ll activate the tracker on you. Do you have eyes on the attacker?”

“No. It came from behind. I’m driving in the middle of the city, so hopefully they won’t try anything reckless and try to shoot again.”

“Right. Where are you planning to go?”

“Grimmauld Place.”

There was silence. Then: “Would advise against that. There are three unmarked cars in front of the house, and it appears they all have men inside. It might be innocuous but the fact that you were just shot at, and that there are three occupied vehicles where you’re planning to go can’t be a coincidence.”

“Where, then?” Draco was still shaky. He tried to think. Hard. It was difficult to cut through his overloaded senses to find a semblance of space where he might be able to use his mind. “We can go back to the HQ.”

“It’s going to delay us even more,” Harry said. Despite the brisk tone, he sounded sheepish. “I — ah — took a different turn.”

“A hotel? They might come after us there. Not to mention we’re driving a car that’s been shot at and I have bloodstains all over me. Not mine,” Draco added hastily at the squawk on the other end of the phone. 

“Ron and Hermione’s house!”

“What?” Draco was confused by this non sequitur as he was by the coming headache. “What about them?”

“From this direction, we can reach them in a few minutes. We can lay low with them for the night.”

“Harry, are you sure you want to bring others into this?”

“We’ll have officers there but we can’t make it as fast as you,” Shacklebolt said. “We’re monitoring your movements now and it appears you have a tail.”

“Ron and Hermione both know how to handle a gun,” Harry said, “and I’ve set up their place as a sort of back up safe house if things go wrong. I also have a stash of weapons there. If we don’t shake off the tail, then we might need to fight them off.”

“Right.” Shacklebolt then followed up sternly: “We’re going to have to talk this breach of regulations when you come into the office tomorrow.”

Draco almost laughed. When. Not if. When.

The car sped through the London traffic erratically. With every turn came a twist in Draco’s stomach and he braced himself for further bullets.

It was only when the car exited out of city limits that Draco dared raise his head.

“They live here?” Draco recognized the area they were in as one of the outlying suburbs of Greater London. Rows of semi-detached houses lined a quiet, leafy boulevard. “I thought they lived in one of those trendy, gentrifying areas somewhere in East London.”

“They moved a few years ago,” Harry said, glancing back. He parked. The car gasped to a halt. “We need to move quickly. Just because I don’t see anyone following doesn’t mean they aren’t.” 

The door flew open after a few knocks on the porch. Granger stared, her eyes the size of saucers.

“Harry, what the hell?”

“No time to explain,” Harry said, grabbing Draco, and all but shoving his way inside. “You need to fortify the house. You know -- that one.”

“Yes, okay, but – is that blood?”

Draco forgot his hand and trousers were still stained bloody. 

“I might need to borrow a change of clothes,” Draco said. “My apologies for the disturbance.”

“What’s going on?” Weasley’s head popped out. “Harry? Malfoy? What the hell? And why are you all red?”

“Ron, there’s no time to explain. Do you remember where the stash is? And do you think Draco can borrow some clothes?”

“What? Yes, I do, and what’s happening? That’s not paint – what have you gotten yourself into?”

Thankfully, Granger recovered her senses first and took charge. 

“Ron, go upstairs and get some clothes for Draco. I’ll go and get the guns. How many? Three?”

“Four,” Draco said. His mind, though still bumpy, had recovered to a state of relative clarity now. 

“I’m not trusting Malfoy with a gun,” Weasley said, with a glare at Draco. “And since when do you know how to shoot anyways?”

“You’re going to need all the help you can get,” Draco snapped. “And I’ve been shooting since I could hold a gun. Do people really forget that I grew up in the country?”

“Well, I’m still not trusting you with a gun. Who knows if you’ll turn on us the second you get?”

“Ron, don’t be ridiculous,” Granger snapped. “Give Draco a gun. And bring some fresh clothes while you’re at it. You’re wasting time. There’s a reason why Harry brought him here, and I don’t think it’s for Draco to murder us all in our beds.”

Scowling, Weasley went back up, returning a moment later with a pile of clothes.

“Here.” He tossed them at Draco. “You can change at the bathroom down the hall. I expect these back pressed and laundered.” 

Draco bit back his retort. It was only a t-shirt and jeans, the shirt hanging off him like a misshapen sack, and the hem of the jeans reaching past his shoes. Weasley was probably half a foot taller than Draco or Harry, and it showed in his clothes. Glowering, Draco tried his best to roll them so he wouldn’t trip. 

When he came out, Granger was holding a handgun distastefully but professionally, and both Ron and Harry carried rifles. Not the type that one used in hunting, but the type soldiers carried on the battlefield. Like the ones Draco had seen not so long ago in the deserts of Afghanistan.

“I have a permit for those,” Harry said quickly, catching Draco’s expression.

It probably didn’t extend to hiding them in someone else’s house, Draco thought, but that was the least of his worries.

Granger handed him a gun. “So first you –”

Draco unloaded and checked it for bullets, then re-cocked it with an expert flick. Everyone stared.

“I told you,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

~~

They didn’t need to wait long. Outside, the harsh scrape of rubber on asphalt rang. Harry motioned for the others to crouch down.

The windows were all bullet-proof to some extent, he had explained they locked the door and barricaded it with furniture from the sitting room. Harry had told Weasley and Granger what had happened at the restaurant in broad strokes, omitting the backstory about the Shield and Draco’s involvement. From the look on Granger’s face, they probably would need to have a long private conversation between the three of them. 

The crack of the bullet against the window made Draco wince. 

“Stay down,” Harry mouthed at them. He peered through the curtains. His action was met instantly by a hail of bullets that clattered against the bulletproof glass.

“How many do you see out there?” Weasley asked, locking his rifle. 

“Roughly a dozen. No more than fifteen in my line of sight,” reported Harry, doing the same. “We should secure the back too. They won’t be so stupid to forget that.”

“I’ll go,” Granger volunteered. She got up.

“I’ll go with you,” Weasley said. He glanced at Harry. “We need to balance out our firepower. Unless you want to go with her ….”

“No, that’s fine. Draco and I will stay up in the front.”

Weasley gave Draco a distrustful look. “If I find out Harry’s somehow hurt, I’ll rip your balls off.”

“Ron!”

“Come on, Ron, let’s go.” Granger pulled Weasley away. They disappeared into the hallway. There was a faint smack and Weasley’s yelp of pain. Draco heard a distinct “What was that for?” before they dropped out of earshot.

Harry grinned at Draco sheepishly. “Sorry. Ron’s … well, he’s very protective.”

“I’m glad.” Draco was. With friends like that looking after Harry, Draco didn’t need to worry so much. He told himself he shouldn’t anyways; Harry had the combat skills and experience of an elite commando. Not to mention all the resources of State, never mind how many expense forms he needed to fill after. 

It made Draco miss his own. After all this was over, he would reconnect with them, he vowed.

The door shook. 

“This door isn’t like the one at Grimmauld Place,” Harry said. “It’s not reinforced steel because – well – Ron and Hermione aren’t paranoid ex-spies. The door is strong, but this isn’t a bank vault.”

“So what do we do?”  
“We hold out until the reinforcements Kingsley send come.” Harry checked his watch. “They should be here any minute.”

There was the muted splintering crash. Draco knew enough to guess it was the door being forced.

Harry pulled Draco back just in time to avoid being hit as it smashed against the wall.

Without missing a beat, Harry swung his rifle. It hit the man squarely in the jaw. There was a pop -- the whites of the man’s eyes flickered upwards for a second before the lids fluttered shut.

Draco jumped on the second man, the butt of the pistol going straight for the temples. The man collapsed.

There were more of them coming in. 

Thankfully, they had the advantage of defending in a narrow passageway. Like Thermopylae, the constricted hall gave Harry and Draco a clear vantage point to plug the hole as it were, and push back the attackers. 

Draco punched and kicked, the gun in his head used like a club. He couldn’t bring himself to push the trigger. Clay targets were one thing, a live human another.

“Duck!” Harry shouted as a ripple of gunfire dotted the wall. He raised his rifle. Draco averted his eyes, focusing his body on grappling with one of the men, trying to wrestle the gun from the man. 

There was silence as Harry finished shooting. He hadn’t aimed at any of the vital areas, just the legs. The men who weren’t unconscious laid mewling on the floor. 

“Are you alright?” Harry asked. 

“Yes.” Draco was breathing hard. His arms and legs were sore, bruised from the struggle beforehand. Draco was sure he would look like a patchwork of colors come tomorrow morning. “You?”

Harry had barely broken out in a sweat, though he was panting. Whether from nerves or exhilaration, Draco didn’t know, and didn’t want to find out.

“I’m alright.” Harry looked at his watch. “Kingsley’s men should be here –”

“Harry, look out!”

While Harry had been checking the time, one of the men on the floor had lunged at the closest discarded gun, raised it. And fired.

Time slowed to a crawl. Draco’s vision tunneled until he saw only Harry. His legs propelled him forward, and Draco felt heat searing through his shoulder. It stayed, digging into and through his muscles.

It almost didn’t register to Draco; he had pushed Harry out of the way, but his knees were giving out. His ears registered a roar and a more feminine gasp. Draco fell to the floor, his hands reaching out to brace himself even though he knew the man with the gun would fire again, this time at a closer target – him.

It never came. Harry leveled at kick at the man that knocked him out. This time brutally.

“Are you alright?” Suddenly, Draco was surrounded by people. Harry, Granger, even Weasley: they crowded around him. Harry’s face was pinched with suppressed fury, and his lips were white.

Draco tried to get up. His body refused to move. He heard more cars, and Shacklebolt’s voice speaking to Harry in an undertone. 

Draco attempted to push himself up. The effort nearly tore his shoulder off.

“Don’t move.” It was Weasley. He held Draco in place, firmly but surprisingly gentle. “Hermione’s going to get the first aid kid.”

The room spun. A cool sensation met the burning in his shoulder, followed by the scald of antiseptic. 

“Kingsley can have you sent to the hospital,” Granger said, wiping away the blood. “From my admittedly limited experience, it’s mostly superficial, but you’ll have to have your arm bandaged and out of commission for at least a week.”

“Good thing it’s my left,” Draco joked. Then: “Wait? How do you know that man? Are you Secret Service too?”

Granger laughed. “No. I’m just a simple lawyer. Kingsley’s an alumnus of Hogwarts too. Gryffindor House, in fact. He tried recruiting all of us, though Harry was the only one who took him up on the offer.”

“Sodding Gryffindors,” Draco muttered. The old House rivalry didn’t die an easy death. At least whatever Granger was doing numbed the pain. It was beginning to get difficult to think. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to get that looked at by the hospital, Mr. Malfoy?” Shacklebolt asked. 

“I can take care of him,” Harry said out of the blue. 

Draco blushed. All eyes focused on Harry.

“I mean, it’s easier for me to protect him,” Harry said. The man who had just taken down a half a dozen men almost singlehandedly shifted nervously. “I’m going to take him back to Grimmauld Place tomorrow. It’s secured, right?”

“Yes,” Shacklebolt said. “That’s why we were so delayed coming here. There was more trouble there than expected. Apparently they thought you were going to head there instead.”

“Makes sense,” Granger said. “No one knows about this place compared to Grimmauld Place, and these men probably only came because they followed Harry.”

“Are you going to be safe here?” Harry asked in alarm. “They might try to attack this place again.”

“We’ll post a watch on this place,” Shacklebolt reassured him. “And the attention will be on you and Draco. I don’t think Riddle will waste resources coming after these two until you’re dealt with.”

“Riddle?” Weasley asked. “You mean the one?”

Harry shook his head. Shacklebolt looked amused.

“Seems like we’re going to have a talk at the office tomorrow about your following the regulations, Harry,” he said. “Or lack of.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry didn’t look worried. “I’ll be relocating Draco back to Grimmauld Place first thing in the morning. I might be late coming in the office.”

Draco wanted to laugh if his shoulder didn’t hurt so much. Leave it to Harry to tell his boss he would be late to his own reprimand.

Shacklebolt shared the same thought evidently. “I suppose in light of what happened tonight, it’s understandable. But don’t make a habit of involving unrelated people in Service business, Harry.” 

Draco supposed that was as far as the ‘reprimand’ would go. Really, it was rather annoying to see the Golden Boy get off with not even a slap on the wrist.

Shacklebolt turned to Draco. “My apologies for tonight, Mr. Malfoy. You have our sincerest regret that you were hurt. If you wish to file for any recompense, please let me know. I am sure Harry would also be happy to assist you.”

Draco waved the offer away. Just that simple motion made him wince. “Just do the job on your end and get the bastards who did this. I’m going to keep looking into this.”

“Not tonight,” Granger said. She gave both Harry and Shacklebolt a disapproving look. “I don’t know what this is about, and I admit I don’t really want to, but I think the best course of action for Draco is to get some sleep right now.”

She was fierce like this, Draco thought. She would make a good mother one day.

They had finished bandaging his arm in a cast. Weasley helped him up. 

“It was brave what you did back there,” he told Malfoy gruffly. “And it was impressive the way you took down some of those men. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Draco said, with a tiny raise of his shoulder to substitute for a shrug. “How are you? Are you hurt?”

Weasley seemed surprised at Draco’s question. 

“Nah,” he said. “Most of those bastards went to the front, and Hermione and I were more than able to deal with the ones who came from the back.”

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Draco asked. Firearms and Combat was not a course taught at Hogwarts Independent School. 

“Harry,” Weasley said. “He taught us some of what he knew when he set up our house. I guess he foresaw a day when something like this would happen.”

“Yes.” Harry was thankful too. 

“Well, here you are. And ahh ….” Ron seemed embarrassed.” You can keep the clothes.”

“What?”

“My clothes.” Weasley reddened. “You don’t need to return them.”

“Ah.” Draco supposed this was a peace offering of some sort, in the form of a faded Nirvana t-shirt and baggy jeans. “Thank you. That’s kind of you.”

“I’ll leave you to your rest then, Malfoy.”   
Draco sat on the bed in silence after Weasley left. The shirt was itchy against his skin. With the lights off, everything was magnified. Whatever painkiller they had shot him with worked, but it left Draco restless.

He had an urge to strip. The jeans were easy enough to manage; he could unbuckle with one hand, and they were loose enough to fall to the ground when he stood. The cool air on his skin was a luxuriant release. 

Draco sat back, trying to tug off his shirt. 

“Need help with that?”

It was Harry. Draco almost jumped off the bed, though he supposed it was logical that Weasley and Granger roomed him and Harry together. 

“Sorry,” Harry said, half-shadowed in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m just a little jumpy,” Draco said. He attempted a smile, though he wasn’t certain if Harry could see it. “I’m sure you understand.”

The bed creaked. Harry sat next to Draco, not quite touching. They were close; Draco heard Harry’s shallow breaths in the dark. 

“Thank you,” Harry said. The words were as soft as the rustling of the sheets. “You took a bullet for me.”

“Ah … well, you would have done the same for me,” Draco said, embarrassed. He had moved instinctively, without considering the consequences. It wasn’t something that needed to be lauded for. 

“Yes.” Harry felt the bandaged wound on Draco’s shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

Draco refused to let out a whimper, though a hiss of air escaped his teeth. “No,” he said. “The anesthetic is working.” It didn’t prevent Draco from the butterfly presses of Harry’s fingers. Draco sought to ignore the lines of sweet agony it ignited across his body. He leaned forward towards its source anyways. Blood pumped loudly in his ears.

“Harry,” Draco said in a croaking voice –

“Let me help you take this off,” Harry said, pulling on Draco’s shirt, and his voice was rough.

Draco raised his arm. There was a relief of cold brushing across his chest, followed by Harry’s hand, hot like coals. 

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess,” Harry said huskily, tracing the edge of the bandages. 

It was starting to heat up. The chill retreated. Draco leaned forward, towards that fire which came from Harry. Draco’s good arm reached out, holding Harry’s in place. His thumb circled on the bicep, relishing the firmness of the musculature there. 

“Draco,” Harry choked out. Draco silenced it by kissing Harry.

It was unlike their kiss earlier in the day. This time, it was gentle, sensual, exploring. Harry’s mouth parted, and Draco pressed in, soft as a feather. 

Their limbs twined. Harry’s nails scraped Draco’s back. Harry was in need of manicure, but Draco decided it could wait. It felt good. So did Harry’s shirt against his bare skin.

“Take this off.” Draco wrenched ineffectively at Harry’s shirt with one hand. 

Harry obeyed, and they were skin-to-skin. Draco loved this, the feel of hard muscles, the substantial weight of another person – of Harry – pushing him into the bed. 

He writhed, his legs coming to wrap around Harry’s waist. He was hard now. They were both hard, the pace of their movements quickening in tandem. 

Draco’s entire body was on fire, the lines of heat from earlier igniting into an all-out inferno. It consumed all the oxygen from his brain. 

Draco didn’t think. His cock jutted out through the waistband of his briefs. He thrusted, the scratch of the friction jolting him into an almost frenzied panting. 

“I should take my pants off too, shouldn’t I?” Harry panted. His erection was stiff through the fabric of his trousers; Draco wondered how they hadn’t ripped already.

“Might be a good idea,” Draco said with a strangled laugh. He didn’t stop with the kisses, mouthing Harry’s earlobe, trailing from his collarbone down his chest, on the flat planes of Harry’s stomach as Harry untwisted to undress. 

Then Harry was naked in front of Draco. The fact that Draco could only see outlines in the darkened room added to his desire. He moved in, his breath hot and wet, to engulf the swell of Harry’s cock. 

A guttural sound left Harry. He rocked back and forth, Draco’s tongue flicking with the rhythm. 

Then Harry pulled back. There was a moist pop. Draco licked his lips. 

“Let’s get you out of those briefs too,” Harry said and Draco heard the raw need. 

He fell back onto the bed, Harry on top of him, both surrendering to it.

~~

Ensconced in a comfortable armchair and armed with a strong cup of coffee, Draco was ready to re-read his father’s papers. 

He tapped his fingers on the plush velvet, rearranging the sheafs of papers once more. Harry had gone to work after helping him settle back into Grimmauld Place. Neither of them talked about what had happened last night, though they greeted each other with an ease that set Draco’s heart floating when they woke up legs tangled with each other’s.

It had not been fraught with embarrassment nor with shame. They had greeted each other with cheerful smiles. Well, Harry had; Draco never enjoyed mornings. They had dressed in companionable silence, and had walked down to breakfast together, encountering knowing amusement from Granger and a rather resigned acceptance from Weasley.

They still needed to air out their issues, Draco knew, but it was a solid step on the road to reconciliation. 

Draco was aware he wore an obnoxious grin. How every stereotypical of him. And here he had imagined himself to be already set on the path for celibacy. Perhaps not.

And what surprised him even more was that Harry had departed for work with a quick peck on Draco’s cheek. Like in the old days.

Motes of dust danced in the sunlight while Draco ruminated. Last night … it had been by turns passionate and gentle, their bodies joining together in sensual pleasure that still made Draco’s toes curl. It was clear that they both still remembered each other’s particular quirks, like how Harry preferred Draco’s mouth hot over his cock or how Draco enjoyed being pinned to the bed…. Draco blushed. He was getting aroused again. It wouldn’t do for Draco to be so distracted in the day.

He rearranged his legs, hoping a change in posture would shake him from his besotted, hormonal behavior.

A sheet of paper drifted to the floor, shaken out by Draco’s movements.

He bent down to pick it up.

It was an innocuous piece of paper, filled with the sloping, arrogant writing of his father. Draco had requested that Shacklebolt give him instead of copies. Draco wouldn’t put it past Lucius to somehow include invisible ink in his own journals.

What Draco had picked up was not so exotic. It was, for his father, rather prosaic, detailing how his day went.

“Went to meet with new investors today,” Lucius had written. “Wanted large sums transferred from Jersey account to Prof. Rosier for services rendered. Prof Rosier wanted money immediately, told him that might take several days to clear, given nature of transaction. Had to pay out of own pockets” – here Draco pictured his father’s scowl – “and retained copy of analysis as proof. Could not make heads or tails of it, but it relates to investors’ new project.”

Draco’s pulse raced. Did he find it? It might sound like an average day for those unfamiliar with Lucius, but Draco understood his father well enough to know that Lucius would never front the money for anyone, not even his biggest clients. And this new investor … Draco checked the date in the stack which the sheaf came from. 

It was within the range when his father was suspected of working with Mors Mordre.

This must be the ‘new investors’ Lucius referred to. And this new project … what did that mean? The name Rosier sounded familiar, but it didn’t bring to mind any immediate results. 

Draco read on:

“Rosier needs to be clearer in his prose. If all academics wrote like this, no wonder our education system is so degenerate. Thankfully, Draco never writes like this. Shows a demonstrated clarity of thought and proper logical reasoning, not the twaddle I had just spent an hour reading. Wonder how investors would make of it.”

There was a slight burn at the back of Draco’s eyes. He blinked. It was faint praise, but he had never heard it voiced, not once, from Lucius about his chosen career. It was more than he ever had expected. 

Draco tried to focus. Who was Rosier? He evidently was an academic, a professor, who did not meet with his father’s approval. Draco smiled. Apparently few did.

He considered calling Shacklebolt to ask for a search on the man, but then Draco had an idea. He opened his laptop and went online, searching for any reference to Rosier.

It took several minutes, but Draco finally found him.

Professor Rosier, of Durham University, Department of Classics and Ancient History. Draco frowned. It was odd that the results turned up news clippings and past academic writings but not the faculty page. 

Then he saw it. “Durham professor killed in tragic collision.”

Draco froze. He didn’t need to open the link to know its contents. Another car collision…. First his father and Harry’s parents … now this Professor Rosier. Draco wasn’t a conspiracy theorist, but coincidences like there never happened. It was not an accident that left Rosier silenced forever – this was the work of men.

Draco was sure he was on the scent now. He scoured the papers, searching for a clue to where his father had left Rosier’s papers. 

“Saw the news about the Prof. Shaken. Might be fanciful but have decided to hide the analysis from him in safe place.”

That was the end of it. There was no more. No further hints or any other mentions. 

Draco wanted to beat his head against the wall. So goddamn close. There could be dozens of ‘safe places’. Lucius’s bank vaults, the safe in the study, the family vault in the Manor – Draco and Shacklebolt had already checked all of these. Nothing were out of the ordinary, and Draco did not recall seeing anything from anyone named Rosier. 

He sighed. It might mean he was back to trudging through dusty rooms again. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Hi,” Harry said, appearing. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, I’m just about done.” Draco stood up, stretched. There was a slight pop as the spine cracked. 

Harry made a face. “How long have you been sitting here?” 

“Pretty much the whole day. I made a discovery, but it means more work for us.” Draco eyed the brown bag in Harry’s hand. “Is that food?”

“Yes. I thought you might be hungry. I remember you used to skip meals while you were working.”

Draco’s stomach chose to growl at the exact moment.

“Well,” Harry gave Draco a stern look. “I guess some things don’t change. I’ll go set up in the kitchen.”

Once Draco had stuffed himself reasonably full with chicken masala and naan, he told Harry his findings today. 

Harry saw the same problem Draco did.   
“We searched everywhere we thought your father might have considered safe,” Harry said, spearing a piece of chicken and wrapping it in the bread. “I can ask Kingsley again, but I don’t think it’ll turn up anything. Maybe it’s not at Malfoy Manor.”

“No,” Draco said. He drained half his glass of wine. “If I know anything about my father, it’s that he considered Malfoy Manor the place to store all the materials he deemed important. He wouldn’t have trust anywhere else.”

“But you already checked the safe and the family vault. Where else is there?”

“Well,” Draco said. “Malfoy Manor has over an acre of grounds, including a forest, the main house, the gamekeeper’s cottage, the stable, and – the mausoleum!”

“What? What about the mausoleum?”

“There’s an old family legend that it was used as a hideout during the Civil War,” Draco said. “And that there’s a secret trapdoor that led to a shelter under the building.”

“You think your father could have hidden Rosier’s clues there?”

Draco shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Besides, I need to go back to the Manor sometime. Why not now?”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Harry said. “You’re still injured. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

“I’ll call the staff to prepare, then.”

~~

They arrived at the Manor in Harry’s car, Harry deciding it was much more secure to use that mode of transportation than taking the train.

“It’s kind of a creepy place, isn’t it,” Harry whispered to Draco. They stood in front of the columned structure. Draco wondered which ancestor had been mad for Neo-Palladian architecture. 

Despite the clean classical lines, there was a strong air of Gothic eeriness. It might have been the untended weeds or the ivy growing unchecked on the marble or the thick canopy of trees blocking out the sun, but here the bird chirps were faded, the light muted. 

Draco pushed the door open. 

“I think the trap door should be around here,” Draco said, peering at the floor. The tiles were sharply even, without a break to suggest there might be a hidden entrance. “According to the family legends, anyways.”

“What do we do?” Harry asked. “Poke at the tiles until they break?”

Draco glowered at Harry. “You break it, you pay for it. This is my family’s resting place. Be respectful.”

“Sorry.”

“Besides,” Draco continued, “I’m fairly certain it’ll be around here.” He bent down, his free hand exerting pressure on the marble. It was cold and chalky with the accumulated grime of centuries. Draco had only been here a few weeks ago, visiting his father. And yet the timelessness made that feel so long ago. 

“How’s that any different from what I suggested?” Harry said with a displeased squint. 

“I’m doing it much more delicately. Trust me; I have a degree in archaeology.”

Harry knelt down to help, muttering suggestions about choice areas where Draco could stuff his degree.

Draco’s hand was starting to numb from the cold, and his back ached. He used to be able to do this for hours at a dig, though he hadn’t had the opportunity to in years. Not even while he was aboard, since most of the work had been in an office on a computer.

Getting old, Draco thought ruefully. The last few years in particular, they seemed to have aged him. 

“I think I found something,” Harry said in hushed tones. Draco crawled towards him, disinclined to stand. His trousers streaked with dirt and dust.

Draco peered over Harry’s shoulder. Harry hooked a finger into the crevice of the tile, so small that it was barely visible, and jiggled it. 

It came loose. Harry removed it to reveal a hole large enough for a man. 

“After you,” Draco said.

“Are there any thing down there?”

“What? You mean booby traps or spiders?”

“I was thinking booby-traps,” Harry said dryly. “I’m not Ron. I can handle a few spiders.”

Draco filed the information about Weasley and spiders for future use later. “I don’t think it’ll be rigged to keep anyone out. Remember, this was supposed to be hideout, not for storing hidden treasures. We have a vault in the Manor for that.”

“Alright.” Harry slipped in. 

Draco clambered uncomfortably after Harry, his elbow banging against the rock as he slid down.

It was a hollow with space enough for roughly two or three people. It was well-maintained, if sparse, with the walls sturdy and the dirt floor clear of debris. It was empty as far as Draco could see.

Except for a box lying in the center.

Draco reached for it, his hands trembling. From the cold, he told himself firmly. The box was one he recognized; it was his father’s. An 18th-century French gold and mother of pearl casket, with the initials LM engraved in bold flourishes. 

There was sheafs of paper rolled up and tied with a silk ribbon, with a note besides. Draco took the note.

“Here.” Harry turned on the flashlight. The glare jarred his eyes. “Is that what we’re looking for?”

Draco read rapidly: “Draco, if you’re reading this, then it means I am dead and that you have discovered what I have been involved in for the last years of my life. I had not told you about the location of the hideout, though it has been a Malfoy secret passed from father to son generation after generation. If you are reading this, I had rather vainly hoped to keep this from you so that you would have the chance to live a normal life without the complications I have brought upon myself. Here, next to this note, are the papers from one Professor Rosier analyzing the findings of an archaeological artifact that the people I have been working with coveted.

You might be able to make better sense of this than I do, since you are in his field. But please don’t do anything foolish. These are dangerous criminals that I have incurred the wrath of, and I don’t want you to endanger your life. Stay safe and give my regards to your mother.”

Underneath was Lucius’s signature.

His eyes stung. Too much dust and from the flashlight. 

“Is there any way you can direct the light further away?” Draco asked. His voice sounded calm. Collected. It was a reasonable request.

“Draco ….” Harry wiped away a tear off Draco’s face with a finger. 

“Damn dust making it hard to see in here,” Draco said. He held up the sheafs of paper. “This is Rosier’s findings. According to my father, I probably will be better at making sense of what’s written here.”

“I’ll go up first,” Harry said gently. “And pull you up from there.”

Draco stared at the note in his hand. His father’s note to him. 

Then he followed Harry out. 

~~

“You know, I’ve never traveled on a private plane before,” Harry said, his legs swinging easily. He was wearing a monogrammed bathrobe with initials BZ, with a glass of water in the other.

“It’s really the most pleasant way to travel,” Draco said. “Not to mention the most discreet. Rich people – the truly rich – love their privacy.”

It was nice of Blaise to allow them use of his Gulfstream on such short notice. Draco thought he might have needed to blackmail Blaise by spilling the details of that night in their fifth year where they had snuck into Dumbledore’s office. 

Blaise had readily agreed when Draco told him he needed to take a trip with Harry to Greece.

“Thought you were overdue for a vacation. And with Harry too,” Blaise had said, winking naughtily at Draco. “I always knew you had a crush on him back in school. It’s good to see that you’re together again.”

Draco had scowled but didn’t bother enlightening Blaise otherwise. Blaise was a good friend but there was no point in burdening him needlessly with secrets. He was glad that Blaise had access to his stepfather’s jet, though. Draco had never met the man, but this sort of generosity was endearing, at least to Draco. 

“We still might have gotten there faster with a military plane,” Harry said, examining the glassware. “This feels … I don’t know, but should we be doing this?”

“Stop being so bourgeois and enjoy yourself, Harry. Military flights are monitored by governments with much more attention than two brats taking their daddy’s jet for a weekend of debauchery in the Mediterranean.”   
“I suppose that makes sense,” Harry conceded. “What is our plan when we arrive?”

“I know someone who can sail us to the location.” Draco leaned back into his seat. The thrill of making a discovery overlooked by the world for thousands of years was electrifying. Draco barely held himself back from telling the pilot to fly faster.

His father had been right about Rosier being a poor writer, shrouding his analysis and thesis in obtuse academese that left the mind boggled. After several readings of it, however, Draco finally understood what it was saying.

According to Rosier, the Shield of Achilles would be able to release its full power and show the wielder the complete future when the sequence of images on it was unlocked. It was a cipher; the engravings that Draco had taken to be decorative and allegorical were actually code. And the decoder was the precursor to a device that Draco had seen many times in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.

The Antikythera Mechanism.

Experts speculated that it was a tool to calculate astronomical movements. Detailed imaging showed it had 37 gear wheels to track the movements of the moon and sun through the zodiac, predicting eclipses and even modeling the moon’s orbit. According to Rosier, the Antikythera Mechanism was only a modified copy of an earlier object.

That object was created at the behest of Aristotle, Alexander the Great’s teacher, to whom Alexander had entrusted the secret of the Shield. Aristotle, a most learned man, had finally deduced the deeper meaning behind the engravings, which related the astronomical movements and complex calculations. Aristotle then commissioned artisans to create what Rosier quaintly termed ‘the Decoder’, to release the Shield’s full ability. 

Rosier believed that the Decoder had been lost in a storm when the ship that was meant to bring it to Alexander in his newfound city of Alexandria in Egypt foundered. The blueprint created by Aristotle had been left at Rhodes, which was a center of astronomy and mechanical engineering in antiquity, and those who had studied it had used it to recreate the Decoder in the form of Antikythera Mechanism. Rosier had said the later engineers modified it to be purely astronomical in function. 

Which was why they were not going to Athens right now, but to a small island in the middle of the Aegean, where Rosier had postulated the currents had taken the shipwreck. 

Harry had listened with a somber attentiveness when Draco explained Rosier’s conjectures. Just hearing himself out loud made Draco sound so foolish. But it was the only lead they had, and Draco had to admit it tied together all the loose ends neatly if – if – Draco suspended his disbelief. 

The existence of the Shield was a reality not to be denied, however, and whatever Draco made of the fleeting impressions when he had held it in his hands, Rosier’s theory made the most sense.

It was corroborated inadvertently by Shacklebolt informing Harry that Dolohov and a woman named Bellatrix Lestrange, a notorious lieutenant of Riddle, had been spotted by agents in Greece.

And now here they were.

Draco stared out the window, at the frothing white crashing against what Homer called the wine-dark sea. He looked at his own glass of white wine, dry, a little sharp against the tongue. It was nothing like the waves below. 

“Well, even if this turns out to be nothing, at least I can always say I’ve taken a private jet to the Mediterranean,” Harry joked. “It’s quite nice, too.”

“I wish it was a vacation,” Draco said, his gaze faraway. He wanted some time with Harry alone, just the two of them, without spies or hitmen interrupting. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in this part of the world. Though the last time I came, it wasn’t in such style.”

“What, was the yacht not up to your standard?”

“I came with my professor for a dig in Turkey,” Draco said drily. “We slept in tents without cots. We didn’t even have a shower, and we all looked like we had drowned in dust after a week.”

“There’s a shower here on the plane,” Harry said. 

Draco winked. “Want to try it out with me?”

Harry slanted a look at Draco. “It’s quite narrow in there. Are you sure we’ll fit?”

“Harry Potter, you need to use your imagination. Besides,” Draco took Harry’s hand with a grin. “I’m sure we can make it work.”

~~

They landed in a small private airport on the island closest to where the shipwreck was supposed to be. They were met there by a pot-bellied man in a Hawaiian shirt.

He greeted Draco with open arms. 

“It’s been a while, my friend,” he said, thumping Draco on the back, the force of which might have knocked a lesser man to the ground. Draco didn’t flinch. “How are you? Are you treasure hunting now? Last I heard, you were working in an office at some posh auction house. And who’s this with you?” 

“Theo, this is Harry Potter.”

Theo examined Harry with an experienced eye. “Ex-military?”

“Yes.” Harry seemed surprised. “Did Draco tell you?”

“Nah.” Theo waved his hand. “I haven’t heard from this one until two days ago when he called out of the blue asking for a boat. ‘It’s a good thing you picked the off-season’, I told him, since it’s still kind of cold this time of year.” He gave them both a look. “This isn’t some exotic vacation you two have planned, is it?”

“I’m afraid it’s for work,” Draco said. 

“I wasn’t aware treasure hunt dives were part of the job description for an appraiser at Christie’s.”

He was much too sharp, Draco thought. “I’m consulting for a side project,” he said. “With Harry’s employer.” That was all true, as a matter of fact.

“Ah....” Theo didn’t make it this far in the business by being overly nosy. He and Draco were old acquaintances, friends even, but there was a limit which Theo observed. “Well, you have all the equipment you requested ready on the boat. I trust you’ve done this before?”

“Er ... no.” Draco has read up accounts and asked some of his colleagues— discreetly — but that was the extent of what he knew.

“Well.” Theo didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. “You at least know how to swim, right?” He laughed as Draco gave him an annoyed look.

The journey from the airport to the boat had been a quick one through dirt road. It was a small but sleek one; the equipment that Draco had requested laid out on the deck. 

“Everything you need is here, Draco,” Theo said. “The wetsuit, the oxygen tanks enough for two hours, two and a half max. Over to the starboard are driver propulsion vehicles.” They looked like small sleds, though with their electric propellers, perhaps a motorbike would be more accurate.

Speaking of which, Harry had brought his own gear. He dropped a heavy duffel from his back. It landed with a thud. Cameras, with titanium housing and controls that could fine tune the image even while taking it underwater. There were two miniature ones that could easily be attached to the diving masks. 

And then there was the gun.

Harry had insisted on bringing one, and it was thanks to the lax oversight for the private jet crowd that he had managed to slip it through customs. It was one of the modified ones from the Service, a Walther that was sealed and armored so it could be fired underwater. 

Theo frowned at Draco. “I thought you were treasure hunting.”

Harry smiled. “Just in case we meet a shark.” Harry slid the clip out, checking the number of rounds left, then back with a neat snick. 

“Shark attacks are rare,” Theo said, and Draco could tell he was trying to maintain levity despite his obvious concern. “In any case, it might be easier to swim away than shooting it.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Draco said. “Are we close?”

Theo nodded. “I’ll have to sail a bit closer to the coordinates for that current you sent me, but this is pretty near. Once we get there, you’ll get into the water with the DPVs and get to where you think the shipwreck is.”

Draco hoped it would be there. A shipwreck thousands of years old might be difficult to find. The digital camera had infrared and other lenses added by Shacklebolt’s men, so Draco thought they could rely on that if their own sight failed them. 

If the artifact – the Decoder, that ridiculous name – was too fragile to be moved, then they would take pictures, imaging it from all possible angles, to be studied back in London. 

“Everything good?” Theo asked. 

Draco nodded. His heart raced from excitement. Criminal organization or no, this was possibly one of the biggest discoveries in history. It might not mean much to people outside a small group of academics, but just finding the prototype to the Antikythera Mechanism would provide an immeasurable insight on science and engineering in antiquity. And if it could decode the Shield….

Draco was taken back to reality by a loud splash as the boat began moving.

“Hang in tight,” Theo yelled over the engine’s buzz and the water. “We’ll get there soon.”

Harry sat, holding onto the ledge, Draco next to him.

“I think I understand a little why you got into this field in the first place,” Harry told Draco. “It’s thrilling, like a treasure hunt straight from a movie.”  
“That’s how Theo makes his business,” Draco said. “Every year, there are people who fancy themselves treasure hunters here looking for sunken gold or artifacts. There are probably hundreds of wrecks here. And a new law recently passed by the Greek government opens the coastline to scuba divers.”

“What if they ruin the sites?”

“That’s one of the worries,” Draco said. “The Greek government pays a substantial reward to prevent these relics from falling into private hands, but a determined collector could probably pay up to ten times the amount. Not only are there shipwrecks that have been documented but not excavated, there might also be cities sunken by the numerous earthquakes in this region.”

“Maybe that can be your next expedition,” Harry teased. “Finding Atlantis.”

“Haha. I think I’ll just limit myself to checking the provenances of these objects at the auction house.” 

Fine mists of water sprayed Draco’s face. It was still decently sunny, though that was deceptive; the air was chilly, despite the field jacket Draco had on, and he knew the sea would be even worse. It was one of the reasons why Theo had been readily available. 

He looked at Harry. Harry was relaxed, face ruddy from the wind. He showed no other signs of the climate affecting him. Draco guessed Harry was used to much more extreme conditions than this. 

They had fallen into a silent understanding that revived most, if not all, of their past relationship. What they were in was beyond physical now, though Draco still braced himself for Harry to disappear any minute. 

Old wounds left scars. 

Harry turned to Draco, responding to Draco’s stare. 

“What?” he ask, his lips parting in a slight smile. 

“Nothing.” Draco didn’t want to voice what he was thinking. “You are ready for this, aren’t you?”

Harry moved closer. “Are you nervous?”

“No.” And Draco wasn’t. He was agitated, yes, but from the anticipation, and he could barely control his nerves, but he wasn’t frightened. Strangely, the knowledge that he should be, that danger lurked, only made him more eager. “I’m excited. This is the first time I’ve done any thing substantive in a long time.”  
“We’re there,” Theo shouted out. He cut the engine. “Get ready.”

They put the DPVs into the water and got into the wetsuits. Draco felt the oxygen flowing instantly as the mask went over his face. He turned on the camera and looked at Harry. Harry was ready, slipping the gun into the holster of his belt. 

Draco gave Theo a thumbs up, and Theo responded with a toothy grin. 

They landed in the water, Draco giving a final wave to Theo before they submerged.

~~

They glided through the murky depths, guided by the powerful headlights on the DPVs. Small fishes, sardines and mackerels and anchovies, swam close, attracted by the intruding brightness. The sun became a weak reflection as they dived deeper.

They moved in a steady rhythm, occasionally checking in with each other by way of hand signals. 

They were visitors to an entirely different world that existed here, under the waves, the realm of Poseidon. It was here that Aegeus, king of Athens and father of the legendary Theseus, drowned himself in grief when he mistakenly thought his son had been killed by the Minotaur.

Just being here gave Draco a thrill that was entirely unrelated to the temperature. It was here that traders of all civilizations plied their wares, from the Minoans to the Myceneans to the Turks and the Venetians. It was the crossroads of cultures, where ideas as well as goods were exchanged.

They hadn’t even seen anything yet. Just algae on rocks and sea flowers, swaying gently in the current. There was a patch of seagrass that showed up ahead, a furry field dancing in a hypnotic motion. 

Draco held up the camera, switching the view to infrared. 

It was clear now, though there was still nothing to be found. Draco had always found swimming, whether in a pool or in a natural body like right now, to be soothing. Even with the residents here moving with stealthy precision did not detract from the relaxing tenor. 

There was a jutting mass of broken wood and rusted metal up ahead. Harry tapped Draco. Draco nodded. He saw. They inched closer.

Covered in barnacles and surrounded by fishes, it was most definitely a ship. Around laid the broken shards of pottery, of the cracked and ruined amphora that carried olive oil and wine and whatever else the Greeks had to trade. There were also bronze and marble statues, glassware,  
jewelry, coins. Some of them still were relatively intact, and Draco wanted to take them in hand and examine them. 

Focus, he reminded himself. It was agony to tear himself away. Harry treaded water next to him, patiently waiting for Draco to take the lead. 

They needed to be careful. Who knew what kind of damage the saltwater had wrought? Rosier wasn’t clear on what he thought the Decoder was made of, but even if it were constructed entirely of precious metal, it still might have suffered from the shipwrecking itself and broken into fragments. 

Draco aimed the camera, searching for a flat, round shape. Despite the sketchy details provided, Draco guesses that the Decoder would be close to the size of a mantel clock, circular (to mirror the movements of the universe it purportedly calculated), with exposed gears not unlike the back of a watch. It might be too difficult to read the inscription given the lack of lighting and the condition of the mechanism itself, but it would be labeled with planetary pointers in Koine Greek, the lingua franca of the intellectual world in antiquity. 

The senses seemed heightened in the dark. His ears prickled with rushing sounds and his breath came out in slow huffs that released in bubbles by the mask. They had plenty of time; they had been down here for only half an hour at the most, but Draco knew looking for something so small in all this would rapidly consume the remainder. 

And no matter how time seemed suspended right now in a state of sybaritic ease, the ocean could easily turn on them. From gentle swell into raging tempest. 

There was a mass of algae that registered on the camera screen like clump of black. Draco squinted. This might be it. It was about the same size and shape, though it was obviously difficult to tell. 

Draco gestured to Harry, trying to contain his excitement. Now was the time for careful precision, rather like making incisions during a surgery. One wrong move might break the device or scatter its parts into the four corners of the ocean.

He touched it. The weeds encrusting it came off. 

It shone, a sparkle of gold and silver that one didn’t need infrared to see clearly. 

Draco strove to prevent himself from surging forward. It was whole, intact, and completely undamaged. The device was circular and flat, almost like a disc, but with intricate clockwork gears. It was wholly constructed of bronze, silver, and gold, though why it remained so durable was beyond Draco. There were small notches on the side, with clear writing that was too small to read clearly even with the camera’s aid.

This was it. This must be the Decoder that Rosier thought would unleash the full power of the Shield of Achilles. 

Draco waved to Harry excitedly. Harry swam over, peering curiously at the device in his hand. Draco couldn’t see Harry’s face, but from the suppressed movements, Harry was just as enthusiastic about the find as Draco was.

They moved quickly, Draco securing the object to the DPV with cables with quick, practiced actions. Their bodies’ natural buoyancy made their ascent swiftly, though Draco worked to slow it down. They had been at a depth where decompression sickness, though still unlikely, was a possibility. 

They finally surfaced, Draco almost ripping off his mask in haste.

“It’s it,” he shouted at the just emerged Harry. “This is it!”

“Let’s get on the boat before we get too excited and knock it back into the ocean,” Harry said with amusement. 

Theo greeted them onboard. 

“That little thing is all you found?” he asked, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “Nothing else?”

“There’s actually an entire hoard of treasure down there,” Draco said, laughing at Theo’s crestfallen face. “I’ll give you the exact location later. And the pictures of it. I want my name on the discovery, but you’ll get the salvage rights and the rewards associated with it.”

“Seriously?” Theo’s tanned face looked at Draco. “Nothing for yourself?”

“Except the credit,” Draco reminded him. “I did go down there and find it.”

“Except the credit,” Theo repeated. “This is a big find?”

“It is,” Draco confirmed. “Lots of marble statues and jewelry and coin. Oh and don’t think of selling of them illegally,” Draco said sternly. “It’s a small world; I’ll hear of it if you do.”

Theo gave Draco a sour look. “Who do you think I am? Besides, dealing in underground antiquities these days is not the payoff it once was. The trade’s been taken over by organized criminals. They’ll stiff you faster than any government. And at least you can challenge the governments in court.”

Draco didn’t want to think about the morass of red tape that surrounded these archaeological findings. There was a reason why he wasn’t a solicitor.   
“But what did you find?” Theo asked, his curiosity overcoming his disdain for ‘that little thing.’ “It looks like a clock.”

“I suppose it is a clock,” Draco said, crawling out of the water. He used his finger to wipe off the seaweed. “A clock and a calculator.”

“Like the Antikythera Mechanism?”

Draco wasn’t surprised that Theo knew of the Antikythera Mechanism. His job was ferrying divers and would-be treasure hunters after all. Draco nodded. “We found a reference to a possible prototype in a colleague’s papers, and it led us here.”

“Ah … you academics do get some things right at times, I suppose.”

“And Harry here works for a … trust that is interested in these sorts of things. His organization is the one that sponsored us,” Draco added, thinking quickly. He wasn’t sure how discreet Theo would be, given that his entire business depended on reputation, and reputation by nature was built by flaunting one’s achievements. “We would like to keep this discovery secret, mind. At least until we can ascertain if it is truly a prototype.”

“I won’t be telling what happened today to everyone at the pub tonight, if that’s what you’re worried about, Draco,” Theo said. “After all, I don’t want any rivals to get to that treasure hoard before me.”

“Thanks, Theo. I appreciate it.” 

Laying it out on a towel, Draco began to methodically wipe down the Decoder. Parts of it were crusted with sand and kelp and rust. They came off surprisingly easily. 

“How do you think that works?” Harry asked, stripping to his waist. Draco averted his eyes. it wouldn’t do to get distracted now. They had enjoyed themselves on the plane; it was time for Draco to focus on business.

“I reckon that there’s a way to match the gears.” Draco squinted. “It’s in remarkable condition, considering it’s been under the ocean for thousands of years, but the inscription is too faded for me to make out except the biggest ones.”

“What do they say?”

“Well, the inscription is definitely Koine, which spread across the Mediterranean through Alexander the Great’s conquest, and it says, ‘made to the order of Aristotle, tutor to the King of Macedon.’ So there’s no doubt that this is the object we’re looking for. The object itself is made from bronze,” Draco held it up to the sun, “gold, and this mineral looks like silver, but –”

“It’s platinum,” Theo interrupted.

“Huh?” Draco tapped it gently with his finger. “How can you tell? By just looking, I mean.”

“Well, when you’re holding it up to the light like that, it’s rather easy. See, the luster is much brighter, compared to silver, which is more of a dull gray in comparison. It also isn’t as tarnished by spending much of the past two or so thousand years ago under the sea, which is a quality of platinum. Silver tarnishes much easier than platinum.”

“Interesting.” Draco set the Decoder down again. “I don’t think platinum was used in antiquity except as an alloy.”

“Well,” Theo said, “if it’s made to the order of Aristotle, then it might be that the artisan who crafted it had access to much more resources than your average metalworker.”

“That’s true,” Draco said. “Electrum coins were used by the Greeks, and there have been traces of platinum found in electrum.” He looked at the Decoder. “That’s very impressive, not to mention expensive, but I suppose it would make sense that an object made for Alexander the Great would use finer material than your everyday metalworks.”

There was a sardonic clap. Draco turned in confusion. It wasn’t from Theo, who was examining the Decoder with scientific interest, or Harry, who was busy changing out of the wetsuit.

Then he stilled.

Dolohov was on a water sled next to their boat, with a gun resting casually within his reach. A dark haired woman rode on another next to him, her gaunt face and haunted eyes watching them with calculating coolness.

Harry stopped moving. 

“Bellatrix.”The name came out in a venomous hiss. 

Draco stared at Harry. “You know her?”

“She’s notorious,” Harry answered shortly. “Responsible for some of the most brutal assassinations and kidnappings in this decade.”

“You flatter me,” she said. Her voice was low, melodious, and tinged with the certainty of a fanatic. “I am only a messenger. It is my master that the credit to those works of art must be attributed.”

Draco didn’t need to question why they were here. They had either tracked him or uncovered the trail on their own and found this place. He was hyper-cognizant of the Decoder, lying on the towel, exposed under the Aegean sun.

They were exposed, too.

“I’m not going to let you have the Decoder,” Draco told them, his voice calm despite the rise of terror in his gut. 

“Is that what it’s called?” Bellatrix looked at the round, clocklike device with amusement. “It’s not a very creative name, is it?” 

“No,” Dolohov said. He, too, glanced at the object curiously. “And I was imagining something bigger.”

“At least it’ll be easier to take with us,” Bellatrix said. Her voice was musing, like stating a fact.

“I’m not letting you take this,” Draco said, moving in front of the Decoder, as though shielding it from their view would protect it from being taken. Theo, Draco noticed out of the corner of his eye, had discreetly backed away from the deck railing. Harry was less than a foot away from his gun, but he didn’t move, likely out of fear that it would catch Dolohov and Bellatrix’s attention. 

“I don’t think we asked for your permission, little boy,” Bellatrix said. “I noticed that your boat here is very sinkable. It’s a pity too, since it’s such a nice boat.”

“If you sink us, you’ll likely sink the Decoder along with it,” Draco said, trying to think. He spotted Harry moving, stealthily now, as both Bellatrix and Dolohov’s eyes were on Draco. Draco had to keep talking, keep them from noticing Harry. “I don’t think your master would be very pleased, will he?”

“It has survived two thousand years of being underwater,” Bellatrix said. “It’s a lot sturdier than you think. And who said we were going to sink the Decoder along with the boat?”

Draco had to admit she had a rather winning hand. But he decided to bluff it out.

“I can toss this back into the ocean before you made a move,” Draco said. “It’s heavy; it’ll probably drift somewhere completely new, carried by the current, before you can dive to find it. I notice neither of you are wearing diving gear. You know that any delay will mean a higher chance of the Decoder becoming lost.”

“Then we’ll kill you and your friends,” Bellatrix said. There was no inflection in her voice; she was simply stating a fact. “We have the resources to find this Decoder. We can hire teams and teams of divers. You’re only causing a momentary headache for us.”

“Then why aren’t you shooting right now?” Draco saw Theo pale at these words.

“Wait a minute,” Theo objected. “You can gamble your friend’s life like this, but not mine. I don’t know anything. I’m just a hired hand.” He shot a glare at Draco. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself involved in?”

Draco didn’t intend to let anything happen to Theo, aggravating as he was at times. “The ocean is unpredictable,” Draco told Bellatrix. “And these waters aren’t exactly undisturbed. The Decoder can get stuck to the bottom of a haul, or caught in a fishing net too. And you can’t carry out that massive diving action without catching notice. Do you really think the Greek coast guard or the media won’t find out? You can bribe a few of them, but not the entire fleet.”

“You underestimate us, Malfoy,” Bellatrix said, and Draco swallowed involuntarily. “However, I do like to avoid any … inefficiencies. What is it you are proposing?”

“Be careful,” Dolohov warned. “He’s a crafty son of a bitch, that one.” 

“I’ll hand the Decoder to you on the condition that you let these two leave,” Draco said. “And that I come with you.”

“You said that last time,” Dolohov said, and his face tightened at the recollection. “What makes you think that we will trust you this time?”

“Because you outnumber me and I don’t think that one,” Draco gestured at Bellatrix with his chin, “is as foolish as you.”

Dolohov surged forward. His hands grabbed the gun. Draco closed his eyes.

“We’ll take your deal,” Bellatrix said, breaking in. She silenced Dolohov with a hard expression. “You keep an eye on them. Encourage them to behave by shooting off someone’s kneecap if necessary.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Dolohov warned.

“I’m in charge here,” Bellatrix said, and there was a sharp edge in her tone now. “You just need to make sure you stay alert and not allow something like last time to happen. It was only because you were lucky that you didn’t lose the Shield that our master spared you. If anything like that happens this time, I don’t think he would be so sanguine.”

An angry blotch spread across Dolohov’s face. Bellatrix’s demeanor, however, discouraged defiance. He scowled and gave Draco a look of the deepest malevolence. 

“Toss the Decoder over here, boy,” Bellatrix commanded. 

“I have poor aim,” Draco said. “Come aboard and get it yourself.”

Theo gave Draco an alarmed glance. Draco sympathized. If he were the owner of the boat, he wouldn’t fancy having two obviously hardened criminal, one armed with a nasty looking gun, aboard.

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. “Very well. I will come onboard. Dolohov, you stay and keep an eye on them.”

She climbed on with a swift jump. Draco, his arms raised to show that he meant no threat, nudged the Decoder, still resting on its towel, over to her.

She picked it up. “It doesn’t look like much, does it? It’s heavy for such a small thing –”

Harry burst into action. During Draco’s negotiation with them, he managed to slip his gun out of the holster. He aimed it at the gas tank of Bellatrix’s water sled.

There was a resounding explosion and a lick of heat that flared, momentarily chasing away the cold. Dolohov yelled, his gun automatically firing. 

Bullets peppered the deck as they scattered for cover.

“This was your bright idea?” Theo shouted at Draco from behind a wooden bench. “You’re wrecking my ship!”

“Sorry!” Draco shouted back. “I bought us some time, didn’t I? Anyways, you should be blaming Harry. He’s the one with the gun!”

Harry, meanwhile, cocked his gun, and aimed again, this time at Dolohov. But Dolohov had recovered, his sled speeding away. The shot fell harmlessly into the water. 

Leveling his gun again, Harry was about to let loose when Bellatrix tackled him. Her hair was askew, a mess of black hair flowing. 

They grappled with each other, wrestling and rolling as the boat pitched from their struggle. 

Draco leapt forward, seeing the Decoder sliding inexorably to the edge of the deck. There was a hail of gunfire that forced him to duck. 

Doholov returned, the loud hum of the sled adding to the confusing mix of noises, overpowering the sounds of fighting between Harry and Bellatrix. He wouldn’t fire at them without hitting Bellatrix, Draco knew. Unless he wanted to get rid of Bellatrix too.

But Dolohov’s attention wasn’t on the duo. Even from a distance, Draco guessed that Dolohov was coming in for the Decoder, which had slipped closer to the water’s edge now.

Taking in a deep breath, he ran with all his might to grab the Decoder, gritting his teeth and bracing himself to be hit. He saw Dolohov raise the gun –

And was answered by a volley of fire.

Theo had taken out a gun similar to the one Dolohov had. Draco didn’t even bother questioning where Theo had gotten that from. The Decoder was safe in his hands. It was all that mattered.

Harry and Bellatrix had both ceased moving. They were both breathing heavily, each backing away, like two injured animals ready to go for a second round but unsure of the chances of success. Harry, Draco noted with relief and mangled pride, still retained his gun.

“You two are going to get on that water sled and go,” Theo told Bellatrix and Dolohov. Harry made a strangled protest that ended when Theo glared at Harry. “I don’t know what this is about, and I don’t want to know. But you’re wrecking my ship and hurting my friends. Consider this a very generous offer.”

Bellatrix held up her hands. “I can see when we’re beaten,” she said, in a silken purr that raised Draco’s hackles even more than the shooting. “We’ll leave.”

“We will?” Dolohov seemed stunned at this turn of events.

“Yes,” Bellatrix said. “We will.”

Just at that moment, there was a chopping sound, like thunderous hooves, descending upon them. Like a chariot falling from heaven, a helicopter swooped in over the boat. It casted a long shadow that touched all the corners within Draco’s line of sight.

There was a man sitting by the open door. He had silver hair that was neatly cropped, and dark cold eyes that pierced Draco as their gaze met. The man was pale, skin like snow, and he exuded a menace that had Draco instinctively backing away.

Bellatrix took advantage of the shocked stillness. She snatched the Decoder from Draco’s hand, Draco being too frozen by the sudden appearance of the newcomers to react, dumping him backwards with a blow to his abdomen. 

At the same time, a ladder unfurled from the helicopter. Bellatrix took hold of it with the dexterity of a trapeze artist. The helicopter flew up, lifting her into the sky. She wore a triumphant grin that stretched like a slit from ear to ear. 

It was too far for Draco to see the man in the chopper clearly, but Draco had the impression the man too wore an expression of victory.

Draco made to go after them but the ladder was already out of reach. Dolohov too, had already sped away. He didn’t even bother to look back.

Draco wanted to punch something. They had almost succeeded. Damn! So close. He literally had the Decoder in his hands, only for the vultures to swoop in at the last minute.

Harry stared at the disappearing helicopter with a mix of fury and fear. “Riddle,” he whispered.

“What?” 

“That was Tom Riddle,” Harry said, louder. “He came himself.”

That was the Riddle behind all this? The man who was responsible for setting this chain of events in motion, the man responsible for his father’s death, and the narrow escapes Draco and Harry had had? 

There was a loud crunch. Harry slammed the wall in frustration. 

“He was right there!” Harry seethed. “I could have had him. If I had just reacted faster. I could have ended all of this if I had just aimed faster.”

“It was too far away,” Draco said gently. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it was mine. I had the Decoder right in my hand, and – she just grabbed it.”

“It’s both of your fault,” Theo said with exasperation. He glared at both of them. “If you had been upfront with me, I would’ve been better prepared and we wouldn’t have been taken off guard. Are you going to tell me what this is about now?”

~~

“I’m sorry for what happened,” Draco said again. They were on Blaise’s plane once more. “I shouldn’t have let go of the Decoder.”

“It’s done now,” Harry said. His face was shuttered. Draco knew he was still thinking of his own failures too. “There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

They had called Shacklebolt to explain what had happened. He had listened with a grave face in silence, nodding at all the pertinent parts to acknowledge them, but saying nothing otherwise. At the end, he had only said: “Well, we need to find them then.”

Draco also had to smooth over matters with Theo. Theo was justifiably enraged about being kept in the dark and his boat being damaged by gunmen after his clients. Draco had explained everything to Theo.

“Why couldn’t you have stayed with a museum or something instead of competing with criminals in this treasure hunt?” he had asked sourly. “I hope you know, but archaeologists don’t do adventures like these anymore. If they ever did.” Then he had made Draco promise to be careful, not do anything ridiculous or dangerous.

Draco couldn’t promise that, but he did press a wad of cash on Theo as apology and to pay for the damage to the boat. And for saving their arses. He was fairly certain that Theo’s ownership of the gun did not exactly fit the requirements of the law, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. 

“What do we do now?” Harry asked. Unlike last time when they flew here, Harry had with him a glass of wine. It was empty. 

Draco, by contrast, couldn’t bring himself to touch a drop of alcohol. Or, if he wanted to, he needed something much stronger than wine. Whiskey perhaps, or vodka. His head hurt. 

“We go after Riddle,” Draco said. Nothing about the man had seemed out of the ordinary, except perhaps more distinguished than most. Draco had felt that intangible force of his personality even from that distance, one that inspired fear and awe of power. “We take the fight to them. So far, we’ve been on the defensive. Our luck will change if we shift tactics.”

“We need more than just luck to beat Riddle,” Harry said, finally cracking a glimmer of a smile. “He’s the most powerful criminal in Europe, if not the world. And how do you plan to find him? We’ve tried for years without success.”

“We can track him other than your typical cloak-and-dagger ways,” Draco said. “He deals in stolen artifacts and looted antiquities, doesn’t he? Well. I work for an auction house. I know … well … I know probably more than I should tell you, but there are ways to obtain those kinds of things for a very determined collector.”

Harry did smile now. “Am I about to learn about the dark criminal past of Draco Malfoy?”

“My past is rather boring,” Draco said. “Public school boy with daddy issues and, well…” he gave Harry a once over, “a complicated relationship with an impossibly handsome man who infuriate the hell out of me. But someone that I can’t live without.”

Harry chuckled. He poured himself another glass. The deep red liquid swirled against the crystal. “Same here. But how do you plan to go about this?”

“I remember one of the artifacts that disappeared later from the hoard while we were in Afghanistan,” Draco said. “You know, that hoard that was in Dolohov’s hideout. I can pretend to be a buyer after something of that kind. If my contact’s any good, he can get me in contact with Riddle’s organization.”

“You’re putting yourself in harm’s way,” Harry said. “For something that by rights you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with.”

“I do have to concern myself with it,” Draco said. “They killed my father. They tried to kill me. Even if I ignore my altruistic side and say, well, let the police deal with them, I can’t ignore that I have a personal grudge against them now. Nor,” Draco added, “can I ignore the fact that they probably will come after me and my loved ones.”

He looked at Harry. Yes, he included Harry in that category. He loved Harry. 

It shocked Draco to admit to himself. For him to be so open about his own emotions was a foreign mindset, one that fitted him like a pair of overly snug shoes.

“Then I’ll be coming with you,” Harry said. “We have to see this through together.”

“Alright.”

“Alright? You’re not going to tell me I’m just going to be in the way, or that you think I’ll spoil things?”

“Would you listen to me if I told you that?” countered Draco. “Besides, I never listened to you when you tell me to stay out of things.”

“Yes….” Harry frowned at Draco censoriously. “We need to work on that.”

Draco didn’t roll his eyes, though it was a close call. “I think you know by now how stubborn I am.”

They sat quietly for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. 

“I think your plan is good,” Harry said, breaking the silence. “But don’t be reckless, okay? Riddle is dangerous, and he has more resources at his disposal than entire governments. We need to approach this carefully. And yes, I mean we.” He looked at his wine. “I’m not leaving you on your own to do this.”

“No,” Draco said. “I wouldn’t want you to.” He stood up, coming to stand next to Harry. “Pour me a glass?”

Harry did so. Het met Draco’s eyes. “Whatever’s in the future, promise me that we’ll face it together.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I think I can promise that.” Their mouths met, Draco getting lost in Harry’s lips, allowing himself to forget, for a time, the dangers ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a trope of fiction that clandestine criminal meetings always occurred in dark alleyways or shaded corners. Draco always thought that was rather silly and overdramatic. 

Not to mention uncomfortable. If you already distrusted the other party, as hopefully anyone dealing outside the purview of the law should, then you might as well gather in enjoyable surroundings for an unpleasant task. 

Which was why Draco found himself in the waiting area of the Leaky Cauldron, tapping his foot impatiently for his contact to arrive. It was a sleek, aggressively modern gastropub, whose owner had thought hanging bronze pots over the hostess’ desk was the height of aesthetic creativity. Personally, Draco thought it was a hazard and a lawsuit waiting to happen. 

Draco scowled. His dinner partner was late. He had specifically told Fletcher to meet at half past seven and it was now almost eight. 

Did something happen, Draco wondered? A momentary spasm constricted his throat. He knew that Riddle kept a close watch on him. The hot burn of shame and frustration at losing the shield was like bile. 

Draco had been more careful this time. He contacted Fletcher by means of encrypted channels even more convoluted than plotting a revolt against the Queen, using payphone booths and unnamed post office boxes as well as the typical oblique references a stranger would never understand. 

They had agreed to meet over dinner, for what was supposed to be an introductory meeting, Draco having obtained Fletcher’s name from the less scrupulous clients he worked with.

Where was he? Draco was not a patient man, except perhaps with his own foibles, and he didn’t tolerate tardiness in others. With the current threat from Riddle hanging like Damocles’ sword, Draco had to admit he was beginning to worry. 

“Are you Draco Malfoy?” 

The man who had asked was rather short, with bandy legs, and untidy straggling hair. It was not the sort of untidiness like Harry’s, which made Draco want to run his hands through, but an unpleasant mop that lice would find perfect as a home. There was a strong smell of alcohol and cigar smoke about him. Draco stopped himself from wrinkling his nose at the last minute.

“Mundungus Fletcher? Pleased to meet you.” Draco shook the man’s hand. 

They made an odd pair, Draco in his Savile Row suit and Fletcher in an ill-fitted dinner jacket over a white t-shirt. It was hard to believe that the man next to him was the most notorious fence for antiquities and art in London. 

Despite his appearance, however, Fletcher displayed the suavity and bonhomie of a socialite.

“How may I help you, Mr. Malfoy?” he asked, after they were seated and the aperitifs poured. “I understand you’re looking to procure a very specific piece.”

“I am,” Draco said. He smiled genially. “I think you know enough about my background to know I have an abiding love for all antiquities and that I also have the means to meet any price.”

“I do know about your background, Mr. Malfoy, and I’m wondering why you’re choosing to have dinner with me instead of bidding on several different lots I can think of which would meet your specifications. Or, for that matter, why you aren’t seeking to buy anything directly from the sellers. You’re well-connected enough to know people who might have what you want.”

“The meal has barely started, Mr. Fletcher. Why don’t we save the business talk for later? Or at least, after the appetizer.”

“Of course. You must be late after waiting for me.” Fletcher inclined his head, a gracious apology. “I would recommend the bone marrow fries as starters. They’re very well done here.”

Draco raised his glass in a toast. “Thank you. To new business ventures.”

“To new business ventures.”

As they ate, they kept the conversation on lighter topics: gossip in the antiquities world, rumors about different museums’ latest acquisitions. Draco wasn’t surprised to find that Fletcher had a deep knowledge of the gossip that this insular world produced. 

Draco had found the right man. Fletcher, if he didn’t work directly with Mors Mordre, would at least have second-degree connections to the group. 

Over the light music playing softly from the hidden speakers, Draco tried to probe the man for more information. How did he find business? Was there an influx of Afghani artifacts, or any Middle Eastern artifacts lately in the country?

Fletcher remained impressively opaque. He had managed to deflect question after question in a manner worthy of the best government spokesperson. Business was fine, he could be selective with his clientele. And Mr. Malfoy would understand better the market for antiquities, wouldn’t he, given where he worked?

Annoyance was mounting under the smile plastered on. Fletcher was not poor dinner company, but Draco was tired. He wanted to finish this. The sooner the entire business with the Shield and Riddle ended, the sooner Draco could stop looking over his shoulder every minute. 

He couldn’t force Fletcher into divulging his sources. Draco was familiar with these types of men; he had encountered too many of them in his field. Sellers and buyers that always negotiated with one eye behind their backs for a bigger fish to bite their bait, and would slip off the hook faster than one blinked. 

That was why Draco was here without Harry by his side. Harry would growl and snap like a pit bull at the man until the poor man pissed his pants. Fletcher was sly, yes, but he also seemed to Draco rather easily scared. It explained the caution.

Harry was watching, though. He was seated discreetly at the bar, drinking a truly enormous tankard of beer, and keeping an eye in case he needed to intervene. Though how he would be able to stand up straight, let alone do anything after finishing his glass was truly beyond Draco. 

“Would you like another glass of wine, Mr. Malfoy?” Draco was only halfway through his glass. Fletcher, however, had already gone through two. 

“I’m alright for now,” Draco said, gesturing to the waiter for water. How much Fletcher and Harry drank tonight was up to them; Draco couldn’t go around blotto when he needed to tease the information he needed out of Fletcher. 

“Pity. They have a great cellar here. I know the owner, you know. Tom’s a great friend of mine. Very fond of each other, we are.”

He turned his eyes on Draco. They were remarkably keen despite being red and bloodshot. Draco felt a chill of doubt. Had he underestimated Fletcher? Or overestimated himself? Draco didn’t believe in false modesty: he knew he could be appealing with his good looks. It might still not be enough. 

“I was wondering if there are any Greco-Bactrian artifacts that are available for purchase,” Draco said, giving Fletcher his most winning smile. “Not the usual pottery shards, but something real. Something like what I believe I provided you with.”

“It sounds like you want museum pieces,” Fletcher said. “Or pieces that museums would want to obtain.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “And now do you see why I came to you? I can’t match the acquisition budget of museums; my spending doesn’t come with charitable tax breaks. I need a source that’s relatively low key compared to the usual means of buying these items.”

“The way you’re proposing to get these items is more costly given the additional … barriers,” Fletcher said. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Draco said. “But I do also know that the competition for these goods are limited. You can only sell them to so many who are, shall we say, less than curious about their provenance.”  
“I suppose you count yourself as one of these?”

Draco smiled modestly. “I do enough of these inquiries in my day job. I don’t think it needs to carry over into my personal life.”

There was a tinkle of laughter from the other table. Soft chimes of silverware and wineglasses were a subtle accompaniment to the New Age instrumental playing. This was a very trendy, very upscale restaurant. Who would have expected a possible criminal transaction taking place at the very moment?

Fletcher scrutinized Draco over. “Weren’t you part of a UN panel whose very job was to prevent people like me from happening?”

“That was a long time ago,” Draco said. “Another life ago.” He allowed the very real bitterness of his past soak in. “Good intentions are seldom appreciated. I assume you know better than most what happened?”

“You did a good job, and then because of that business with your father, the museum you were part of fired you.”

“Yes.” Draco clenched his glass. It was no act. The anger still smoldered. “Why bother with being a good person when every one expects you to fall in the end?”

Fletcher nodded slowly, a pleased expression creeping across his face. “Very good point. Is that why you’ve decided to, how should I put this, traffic with the likes of me?”

“That and I heard you offer a good deal,” Draco said, rather sharply. Bringing all that old business up rather upset his plan of a charm offensive, but this burst of reality seemed to have clinched the deal. 

Fletcher stood up. “I think I might just have what you’re looking for, Mr. Malfoy. Why don’t we wrap up dinner and go to my office? It’ll be much more private there.”

~~

Draco shouldn’t have been irritated that somehow, he had been the one to pay for dinner. There were much bigger issues than professional courtesy at stake here.

They had walked from the Leaky Cauldron to the Tube, then to a rather insalubrious part of Outer London. 

Then they walked. For at least ten minutes; with Fletcher guiding the way with furtive glances all around and Draco growing increasingly irritated as empty cabs passed them and his breath created icy puffs in the air.  
He hoped Harry was able to keep up. No doubt they had a lock on his cell phone and were able to track him and Fletcher, but Draco didn’t relish the idea of being so exposed. It would be easy for someone to sneak up behind them with a knife in the back. 

Draco had to trust that Harry was nearby, shadowing them somehow, hidden by dark arts which mere mortals like him couldn’t penetrate. 

They finally stopped. Draco saw a loose sign with the word Knockturn in faded letters. Fletcher gestured to a door in the alley leading down from the road.

“Now that we’re alone, we can talk more openly,” Fletcher said, closing the door firmly. It was dark in the room. Draco could not distinguish any details except for the creaky wooden floorboards and a lamp that needed its bulb replaced. Draco groped around for a chair.

“I’ve been struck by a fancy for all things Greco-Bactrian,” Draco said without preamble. “I’m beginning my own collection and I’m determined to end with a sizable one.” The lie came easily to him. He hoped so; he had rehearsed it in front of the mirror long enough. 

“That simple?” Fletcher sat at a desk that Draco hadn’t noticed and lit another light. It darkened his face in an oddly menacing manner.

“That simple,” confirmed Draco.

“And you want objects that are special, not the usual pottery. So like what?”

“Coins, daggers, perhaps a shield,” Draco said, trying to recall what he saw in Dolohov’s cave.

“I think I might have what you’re looking for,” Fletcher said, baring a toothy smile. “You seem to be just in luck, your interest arriving at the same time a package of these goods arriving from abroad.”

Draco’s pulse quickened. “Is that so?”

“It is.” 

“Are they from the source? From Afghanistan, that is?”

“They are.” Fletcher’s eyes glittered. “Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, how is it that you have such good luck? These artifacts are very rare, you know, and the government is keeping a tight watch on them to ensure they do not fund terrorism.”

Draco shrugged, trying to affect ease. “I have good karma.”

“Really?” Fletcher stood up, cutting across the already miniscule illumination. He moved next to Draco.

“How do I know you’re not an informant?” he hissed into Draco’s ears.

Draco tensed. “I’m not. Why would I want to help people who think I’m scum?”

“True.” Fletcher’s fingers touched Draco’s shoulders. Draco tried not to shy away from them. “We scum need to stick together.” 

Trying to relax, Draco spoke in an easy tone: “Does that mean you’ll waive your fee? As a gesture of goodwill?”

“You have a lot of nerve, Mr. Malfoy, for someone who might be an informant to ask for favors.” Fletcher had not shifted from his position next to Draco.

“Just someone trying to save a few pounds where he can.” Draco pried his fingers from clawing at the armrest, sitting up slightly to the edge of his seat. A frisson of violence threaded the room. How suspicious Fletcher was, Draco wasn’t certain. Draco had to be prepared in case events took a turn for the worse.

Then Fletcher laughed. “I suppose that’s reasonable. I can’t fault you for trying.”

Draco relaxed marginally. “I’m just trying to be financially responsible. The economy isn’t doing that well right now. Can’t afford to splurge on all my whims.” He wanted to move out of his chair without seeming rude. The powerful odor of tobacco smoke made Draco dizzy.

“That’s right,” Fletcher said. “Which reminds me: my fee isn’t cheap.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Draco said. Really, Fletcher’s proximity was giving Draco a headache. “You don’t need to worry about being paid.”

“Really?” Fletcher crept closer. One of his hands was almost next to Draco’s face. “I should be glad, then.”

“Yes.” Draco jerked his head away from Fletcher. “You won’t find any reason to regret this.”

“If you’re willing, I also take payment in kind,” Fletcher said, dropping his voice low. He was uncomfortably close. 

The implication was clear. And disgusted Draco.

“There’s no need for that,” Draco said coldly, and he did get out of the chair now. “There might be a financial crisis going on, but the Malfoy accounts are more than enough to meet your requests.”

“And if I make it a nonnegotiable part of my compensation?”

Draco stared at Fletcher, every line of his body tight. “In my experience everything is negotiable.” 

Fletcher leered at Draco. “Oh, come now. You can’t be that sheltered. From the sound of your accent, you went to those posh schools where things like this happened on a regular basis. I’m not asking for much.” He leaned in close to Draco, his mouth opened. Gin combined with tobacco was an unpleasant combination, and Draco scrunched his nose. 

“This is a business transaction, Mr. Fletcher,” Draco said, and his tone could freeze ice now. “Let’s try to be professional here.”

“’This is a business transaction,’” Fletcher mimicked. “God, all you posh boys are the same. What I wouldn’t do to take you down a notch –”

Draco reacted the moment Fletcher’s hand landed on his chest. Draco’s arm lashed out, knocking Fletcher backward. At the same time, the window shattered in a resounding blast, and Harry charged in. He seized Fletcher by the collar, pinning him to the wall with his forearm.

“Touch him again, you son of a bitch, and I’ll make sure that’ll be the last thing you ever touch.”

“Harry, what the hell –”

“Do you understand?” Harry tightened his hold. 

åFletcher let out a terrified squeak and a nod.

“Harry, I was in the middle of negotiations,” Draco said, annoyed. “I could have handled a small-timer like him.”

There was a muffled protest from Fletcher. Harry increased the force in his grip.

“He’s scum,” Harry said, with a glare at Fletcher. 

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “He is. He is also someone who might know something that can be useful to us.”

Fletcher gave Draco a malevolent stare. “I knew you were an informant.”

“I’m not, actually.” A new idea sprang to mind. Now that Harry was here, his presence could be of some use. “We just want some information from you. I promise we will make it worth your while.”

“Why should I trust you?” spat Fletcher. “You lured me under false pretenses, you bast – ow!” Harry had raised his arm warningly.

“If I weren’t the one stopping my friend here, you’d be dead,” Draco said lightly. It wasn’t true; Draco didn’t think Harry would kill an innocent more than he would sprout gills, but Fletcher wasn’t aware of that. Fletcher also wasn’t aware of Draco and Harry’s affiliations. “Think of that as a goodwill gesture. And I haven’t misrepresented my financial circumstances. I can meet your needs – if you prove cooperative.”

“And if I don’t.”

“My friend here doesn’t like you,” Draco said, and on cue, Harry inched menacingly towards Fletcher. “I wouldn’t recommend provoking him.”

“Are you sure we can rely on him, Draco?” Harry asked, staring at Fletcher with disgust. “He’s not exactly reliable, is it?”

“I don’t need anything from that’ll require him to go into hiding or disband his business,” Draco said. That was also slightly bending the truth: if Draco and Harry failed, it was more likely that Riddle would come after all those who had helped them with a vengeance. “Just some names and an address. It’s much easier work than fencing great big lumps of marbles.”

“Oh?” There was a definite note of interest under Fletcher’s caution. “Easy work? Then why all this?”

“We have to be cautious. But Harry, maybe you should let Fletcher go.”

“He might run the moment I do,” Harry growled. 

Draco hid his smile. This good cop, bad cop act was extremely effective. “Then shoot him if he tries to run. We don’t need him that bad.”

“I won’t run,” Fletcher squealed. It was too dark to see Fletcher’s complexion, but Draco bet it would be as pale as snow now.

Harry released him. Fletcher fell forward with a choked gasp. Massaging his neck, he looked angrily at both Draco and Harry. “I’m just a humble man trying to make a living in a hard world. No need to use such force.”

“A man of the world,” Draco said drily. He settled back in his chair once he was sure Fletcher wasn’t going to run. Harry settled next to Draco, standing like an angry shadow. Draco decided he rather enjoyed this, Harry’s protective – and frankly, possessive – side. “Please feel free to take a seat.”

“It’s my place, you know,” Fletcher grumbled, but he was careful to avoid Harry’s reach. He sat, looking uneasily at the duo. “So what do you want to know?”

“These recently arrived Bactrian artifacts: where are they coming from? Who is selling them?”

“I thought you said you weren’t informants,” Fletcher said accusatorily. 

“We’re not,” Draco said. “These people took something from me and I want it back.”

Fletcher narrowed his eyes. “Then you already know who you’re after.”

“It would be nice to confirm my suspicions,” Draco said. He gestured at Harry. “I’m not rash like my friend here.” 

The mention of Harry seemed to have shocked Fletcher back into cooperativeness. “Yes, yes. You are a very intelligent young man, Mr. Malfoy. I would be happy to help you. However, in my line of business, trust is everything, and confidentiality is of the strictest importance.”

“They’re not worth your loyalty,” Harry said. “They’ll use you and discard you when you’ve outlived your usefulness.”

“Then I shouldn’t give them any indication that I’m not useful anymore, shouldn’t I?”

“You’re not the only fence in London,” Harry said. “You’re good at what you do, obviously, and your connections give you an asset compared to the competition. But there’s no honor amongst thieves and greed overcomes any semblance of trust you may have built in your work.”

Fletcher appeared conflicted. Clearly something Harry said had struck the right chord. Draco thought Harry was better at this than he had expected.

“If I give you my sources, will you leave me alone?” he asked finally. 

“That depends on the veracity of your information,” Harry said. “And don’t try to run. We’ll be able to find you anywhere.”

The silence stretched on for several heartbeats. Draco didn’t dare move. Without Fletcher, they would have nothing. Not a single clue on how to find Riddle. Fear was a useful tactic, but if they had pushed Fletcher too far ….  
“I’ll cooperate,” Fletcher said. He sounded frightened. Whether it was of Harry and Draco, or by the import of what he was about to do, Draco was not sure. “You want to know who is selling all these artifacts, correct?”

Draco nodded. 

“There are several, but one has been providing the vast volume of these goods,” Fletcher said. “And what’s interesting is that even with the quantity, the quality of these are superb. Museum pieces. Gold and silver, marbles, coins. Things that haven’t been turning up in such numbers in a long time.” 

Draco’s pulse quickened. That must be it! That must be Riddle and his Mors Mordre minions behind that.

“Where is he?”

“He?” Fletcher looked confused. “I don’t know about a ‘he’. It was always a woman who contacted me.” He gave a description that fitted Bellatrix. 

Harry shared a look with Draco. 

“How do you get in contact with her?” Harry asked. 

“The same way Mr. Malfoy did. Except I contact them first with what the buyer requested. And then they respond. We use post office boxes that arrange the drop-offs at a warehouse.”

“Did you contact them with news of my request?” Draco asked. 

Fletcher nodded. “They provided several pieces which fit the description you gave. I … ah, allowed them to think you wanted all of them.”

“So much for loyalty,” Draco snorted. However, this did simplify matters. They didn’t need to rely on Fletcher to be their messenger to Riddle. They could keep watch on the warehouse without Fletcher’s further involvement. 

“Leave the address of the warehouse,” Harry ordered. “As well as the post office box that you us to communicate. That’ll be the end of your part in this.”

“Really?” Fletcher fairly jumped up at this. “That’s all?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “And you need not ever see us again. Unless you want to.”

Fletcher glanced at Draco. “What about my fee?”

“Do you want a check? Or do you take credit?”

Fletcher snorted. “No. Neither. They’re too easy to track. Cash or nothing.” He gave them a shifty look. “I was cooperative, and you did promise me my fee.”

Draco signed. He never carried over a hundred pounds in cash. He dropped the bills in front of Fletcher.

Fletcher gave him a scornful look. “You have got to be joking.”

Draco sighed. “I’ll throw in these too.” He took off his watch.

“That’s only a starter Rolex,” Fletcher said. “The resale value on that –”

“We’re throwing in your freedom,” Harry said. “All of this -- you’ll be in prison for twenty years, if not more.”

“You’ll incriminate yourself,” Fletcher said uncertainly. 

“Do you really think so?” Draco’s eyes were cold. “I think you’ve gotten the impression that we’re not the kind who makes idle threats.”

“No,” Harry concurred. He drew in closer, ominously. 

It had the desired effect. Fletcher widened his eyes and grabbed the wads of cash and the watch. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Yes.” Fletcher bit his lip. “Do you need anything else?”

“I think that’s all.” Draco glanced at Harry. “You?”

“Nope.”

“Then get out of my house.” 

~~

The wise man knew when to retreat. Draco and Harry left with alacrity, out under the baleful gaze of a glowering Fletcher. 

Harry walked besides Draco. 

“Are you cold?” Harry asked. 

Draco shook his head. “I’m fine.” They walked under the electric hum of the streetlights. 

“Why did you burst in like that?” Draco asked. “I had everything under control.”

“Did you really?” Harry walked without turning his head. “Then why did you let him take advantage of you?”

“He wasn’t going to,” Draco said. His shoes scuffed the pavement. “I wouldn’t have let him.” Harry was making too big a deal. He should realize that Draco could take care of himself, especially with a small-time crook. That was what Fletcher was: not a cold-blooded killer like Dolohov or Bellatrix, but someone that jumped for scraps like a jackal. 

It was slightly displeasing for Draco that Fletcher mistook him as one of these scraps, however. Pressed suits and soft hands didn’t necessarily mean a soft man; Draco wondered if this experience would impress that lesson on Fletcher.

He told Harry. 

Harry gave a strained laugh. “I guess you’re trying to tell me that too, aren’t you?”

“… Maybe.” 

“I worry about you,” Harry said. “You’re so independent and you like to do things on your own that I don’t know how to help. And when I saw him touching you and talking to you like that, I just – I snapped.”

“It’s not like I particularly court that kind of behavior,” Draco said. “I was about to give him a lesson when you burst in.”

“Good,” Harry said fiercely.

“I was trying to get information out of him,” Draco said. “That was why I didn’t plan on being too rough, Though I have to admit, your unexpected appearance added a healthy dose of terror that was more helpful than I thought it would.” 

“Men like that only care about self-preservation,” Harry said scornfully. “And they do everything they can to save their own skin. And take for themselves what they want.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No,” Harry said, and he finally paused. “Not everyone.”

“Well,” Draco said, “that’s what keeps this world from disintegrating into a complete hellhole.” 

They fell into silence again. The night was softly warm from the streetlights, the black ameliorated with silvery outlines from the moon, peeking through the clouds. It wasn’t so unpleasant to wander around here at night, especially when Harry was here with him.

Draco didn’t know what to make of Harry bursting in like that. It was gratifying to see Harry, and Draco’s heart did a little skip. At the same time, it frustrated him to see his plans thrown in chaos. 

And there was the thornier question of how to define their relationship. Draco and Harry had spent the past few weeks in each other’s company. It was like before – Draco unconsciously divided adult life between when he and Harry dated and after – and Draco could feel the barriers of caution he raised falling. 

What should he do? Draco could take a risk and tell Harry everything, force Harry to answer the questions he had, and this time comprehensively. He was unsure if that was the best step to take; there was a part of him that acknowledged the remote possibility that he might not like the answer.

However pleasant the night was, the temperature was dropping. Draco rubbed his forearms. 

“I feel I should do the gentlemanly thing and offer you my jacket, but I’m kind of afraid you might think that I’m not letting you take care of yourself,” Harry said, with a slight note of amusement. 

“It’s alright,” Draco said. “I can see the station up ahead. This isn’t the Arctic, you know. I can handle this bit of walking.”

Nevertheless, he did pick up the pace. 

“I’m surprised you came all the way out here,” Harry said. “I never pictured you in one of the less posh areas of London before.”

“It’s not so bad here,” Draco said. “After all, compared to being stuck in a cave in a desert, this place is positively Elysium.”

Harry laughed. “That’s true. I think once you’ve been to a warzone, you definitely learn to appreciate what you never did before.”

“Is that the case with you?” Draco asked. Do you appreciate me, after leaving me for the deserts and the bombs? 

“Yes,” Harry said, his voice pitched low. “I think that lesson came to me the hard way.”  
The Tube at this point of the night was still busy. The car they got into was full of teenagers who barely outgrown their spots chugging water bottles full of a liquid that was clearly not water. The press of the bodies made it claustrophobically humid after being out in the open, and Draco wrinkled his nose at the unwashed bodies. 

He and Harry occupied a pole to the corner. Harry spent much of the time thumbing Draco’s arse whenever the train lurched. Draco didn’t have the heart to order Harry, to stop. He tried to demonstrate his irritation, though, by pressing his own back into Harry at the earliest opportunity to push Harry’s hands away. Somehow, Harry didn’t seem to get the message.

A brisk wind picked up when they stepped out of the station. 

“Back to Grimmauld Place?” Draco murmured. The crowd surged past them, pushing Draco literally into Harry’s arms. 

“Yes,” Harry answered, equally husky. “Let’s go back.”

Draco had a ridiculous urge to place his hand in Harry’s as they trudged along the path. 

He missed this. The quieter moments, as though all of London was asleep except them, so that they could share this time and space between only themselves. 

This time, there was no assassin, no frenzied car chase through the city. They could enjoy the slowness, like moving through honey, knowing that whatever tomorrow brings, they would always have this between the two of them.

A black cab rolled past.

“Thank you for tonight,” Draco said, as they reached the porch of Harry’s house.

Harry unlocked the doors. “It’s part of my job. And I think my help was pretty effective, wasn’t it?”

“It was. But thank you for being so protective of me. It’s nice to know that you’re always watching my back.”

They were in the hall now. 

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Harry said, reaching around Draco’s waist. He pressed a gentle kiss on Draco’s cheek. “Not ever.”

~~

Riddle gazed at the two objects in front of him.  
The Decoder, the boy called one of them. An apt, if unimaginative name. It would serve its purpose soon, unlocking the code which kept the secret of the Shield. 

The Shield was of remarkable craftsmanship; even an untrained eye could see that. Riddle could feel the vibrations of power that emanated from it, just waiting for its rightful owner to use. 

He wondered if it was serendipity or fate that led him to the Shield. He had been a young student once, reading the Greats at Oxford, when he first heard of the Shield’s legend. It had resonated with him, the fabled object that belonged to both Achilles and Alexander the Great, two of the world’s mightiest warriors. 

Riddle considered himself a warrior. Perhaps not so much in the literal sense, though in his younger days he wielded an entire range of weapons with proficiency. But he fought – against the decaying moral values of this world, against the degeneracy that the mixing of blood ultimately brings. 

He tapped his finger. Instantly, a man entered the room.

“Ye – yes, master?”

“What is the progress on activating the Decoder, Wormtail? Have we found out how it works?”

“We – we’re contacting all the experts we could find, master,” Wormtail stuttered. “We have to be careful about who we trust with the information, after what happened with Lucius. And it’s been difficult approaching these academics, since none have the cachet that the Malfoy name used to have. It’s hard to find any professors these days that want to consult for unknown projects, particularly on what they consider fringe theories.”

“I trust you are being discreet in your inquiries,” Riddle said, in his high, cold voice. “I know that the British Secret Service is on our tails. We cannot afford to expose ourselves before we are ready.”

“Yes, master,” Wormtail said. “We have been most careful in the details we choose to reveal to the experts we contact. It is a pity that Rosier had to go, master. He had the necessary expertise that would have been useful –”

“Are you questioning my decision to terminate our relationship with him, Wormtail?” Riddle asked icily. 

Wormtail let out a little squeak. “No, master.”

“Rosier did indeed possess the necessary expertise, but he was much too close to the truth of our actual plans,” Riddle said. “He was also beginning to cost more than he was worth. And who knew if he and Lucius had planned their little shenanigans together? It was better to be safe than suffer traitors. You do understand, don’t you, Wormtail?”

Wormtail nodded mutely. 

Riddle touched the Decoder. “It was a clever idea of mine to loosen the leash we had on the Malfoy boy. I had every faith that he would have led us to this. And he did.”

Wormtail hazarded a thought. “Perhaps we could use his help, master?” 

Riddle laughed. Wormtail tried not to flinch but he didn’t entirely succeed. Riddle did not seem to notice, though.

“The Malfoy boy hates me for what happened to his father, and doubtlessly Potter has poisoned the boy’s mind. No, the Malfoy boy is not to be trusted. However, I feel it would be … appropriate … for him to attend once I have unleashed the power of the Shield. He should witness the results of his actions.”

“What of Potter, master?”

“Potter can attend too.” Riddle’s face tightened. “It is a pity that he is such a thorn at my side. He would have been such an asset. And we do so need fresh talent in this organization. Unfortunately, he has chosen to oppose me like his parents before him.”

He touched the Shield. The gold heated under his fingers. It was smooth and worn, and Riddle had an image of the heroes of old holding it. 

It was indeed an honor, one that he undoubtedly will put to the best use. 

“When will Bellatrix and Dolohov return?” he asked. 

“Soon, master. They are completing their tasks in the Russian Federation and will return at once.”

“I don’t understand why they insist on holding an election,” mused Riddle. “There is no need to provide such a facade. The Russian people understand fear and strength — that is what I always admired about them.”

“Perhaps it is for the rest of the world,” Wormtail said. 

“That is paltry reason,” Riddle said scornfully. “However, a contract is a contract. We will eliminate the troublesome pests that persist in the so called election monitoring for them. It will allow us to build up our goodwill with them.” His tone turned businesslike. “What of our other businesses?”

“Our agents have eliminated leaders and journalists covering the Tibetan demonstrations at the behest of the Chinese government,” Wormtail said. “We have also successfully planted false flag operations that successfully have caused greater tensions between the Tibetans and the Hui and Han ethnic groups.”

Riddle frowned. “That wasn’t part of our contract.”

“No,” Wormtail said. “But the Chinese government have requested that we complete those actions as part of what they termed ‘additional services’. In exchange, they have provided us with the information they’ve obtained from the digital files of the American intelligence.”

“I suppose it’s in our best interest to cooperate with them for now,” Riddle said. “Anything of value in those?”

“A fraction of our drug running and cyber distribution activities have caught the attention of the FBI and the NSA,” Wormtail said. “The information the Chinese provided lists the operatives that have somehow embedded themselves. We have taken the steps to plug the leaks.”

“Good. The Americans are overconfident and distracted with the idea of terrorism.” Riddle’s face twisted. “Unlike their British counterparts, they are much less competent when it comes to dealing with us. However, they might still pose a danger. It is good that we have the opportunity to eliminate the leaks before they become threats. Anything else?”

“Yes. Mundungus Fletcher has requested several items from us for sale to a private collector. We have taken the usual procedure. The goods are being transferred to the warehouse.”

“Good. Now leave me. I wish to examine this further.”

With a bow and an expression of relief, Wormtail left. 

Riddle didn’t pay any notice. Soon, he thought, he would have the secret of the Shield.

~~

The cold nipped at their skin. Stifling the urge to sneeze, Draco pulled his jacket closer. Next to him, Harry rubbed his arms.

The warehouse itself was near one of the development sites in London, where they were putting up enormous luxury towers. Soon, this wasteland of cranes and pitted ground would be transformed into spires of glass and steel. 

It was deserted at this time in the night. Not even a squirrel or bird fluttered. Harry and Draco had propped themselves against the wall of a nearby outhouse, watching for any movement.  
It smelled horribly fragrant, but they had no cover otherwise from which to observe any comings and goings. So far, they saw nothing, only a few construction workers and someone who looked like he might be the foreman leave.

How much longer was this going to take? Draco was growing cold and irritable. Not even the thermos of coffee could keep his spirits up; it rather made him jumpier with all the caffeine. 

Warming his hands with his mouth, he tried to concentrate. Fletcher had indeed done as Draco requested, and contacted Riddle and his group. There had been a scrap of paper with the address scrawled on it in surprisingly neat handwriting when Draco checked the post office box this morning.

Then they had waited all day at the site, hoping to see what happened.

Which would be nothing.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” Draco whispered. 

“You didn’t have to come along, you know,” Harry said. He was unperturbed by the environment and would not have been out of place as a wax statute at Madame Tussauds’. Only the humorous curve of his mouth betrayed him. “You insisted on coming, remember?”

“Well, all this was through my effort.”

“A general doesn’t need to fight on the battlefield to command,” Harry said. 

Draco glowered. “Stop making so much sense. You’re making me dislike you.”

Harry winked. “Does that mean you’ll finally stop following me around?” Then he became serious. “But it is dangerous out here, Draco. I did tell you that. So if you want to leave, please don’t hesitate. You don’t need to prove anything.”

“The only danger that’s out here,” Draco said, “is the risk of hypothermia.” 

“I have a blanket in the car,” Harry said. “You can go grab it.”

Draco considered the offer. The car was parked illegally in front of the recently constructed flats which would be soon joined by their brethren here. 

“It’s too far,” Draco said. “I would be missing what happens.” This must be how a volcanologist feels, Draco thought. Most of the time, it’s mind-numbingly boring, but when the moment comes, it’s all hands on deck. 

“Well,” Harry quirked a smile, “then you’ll just have to stick it out.”  
Draco subsided back against the wall. He wished he could stretch his legs at least, but the area which was hidden from view was too small even for that. He was forced into a cramped half-sitting, half crouching position with his buttocks over his heels.

He was reconsidering Harry’s suggestion to go wait in the car when he heard the unmistakable sound of gravel under rubber tires sounded. 

A black sedan pulled up in front of the warehouse. A woman stepped out. The harsh yellow light caught in her hair.

Draco held his breath. It was Bellatrix.

“Where is that rat Fletcher?” 

A short, weaselly-looking man came out of the door behind her. Wormtail, or so Draco thought. 

“He just sent a message that he would be indisposed tonight. Something about a poor stomach.”

Bellatrix snorted. “More likely that he’s drunk with two cheap girls on his arm. There’s no point in waiting for him here then. From what I know of him, he would be occupied until the afternoon tomorrow. Perhaps I should pay him a visit to remind him of the benefits of punctuality.”

Draco shivered at her words. Though he had no love for Fletcher, he could imagine what a ‘visit’ from Bellatrix meant. 

“Then should we return to the master?” Wormtail asked timidly. “After all, there really is nothing for us to do there.”

Bellatrix considered him. “I suppose so. You and I should check the warehouse, see if it is secure and nothing is missing. I wouldn’t put it past Fletcher to try and steal from us.”

They went. 

“Wait here,” mouthed Harry. Draco nodded.

Harry slipped, quick as lightning, to the car. He had something in his hand. What it was Draco couldn’t see. It made little difference; Draco watched with trepidation in every breath as Harry moved like a shadow across the construction lot. 

Harry moved with the surety of the site’s foreman and the agility of a dance, making his way through the dugout holes and the cranes. Draco willed him to hurry – any minute and Bellatrix would be finished with her inspection. Harry had to do whatever he was planning fast, leaving a window for him to escape.

Bellatrix’s voice returned. “Everything is in order,” she told Wormtail. “Not that Fletcher would have the guts to try and swindle us in any way.”

“No,” agreed Wormtail. “Can we go back to the car now? It is rather cold.” Draco sympathized with Wormtail, though his plaintive tone was immensely grating.

Bellatrix evidently thought so, too. “Shut up,” she snapped at him. “No wonder you’re reduced to an errand boy, if you can’t even handle this little bit of breeze.”

Where was Harry in all of this? Draco’s heart hammered so loudly he was almost surprised no one heard him. 

He was about to leave his hiding place in search for Harry, consequences be damned, when Harry popped back next to him. It was lucky that Draco was too busy blowing hot air into his hands at the moment, or else he might have scream. As such, he let out a squeal that would have been worthy of a mouse.

Harry hushed him with one hand over Draco’s mouth. 

“I went to place a tracker on their car,” he whispered. “We’ll be able to follow them once they leave.” 

They heard the sound of the engine, the car leaving like a gunshot. Once the lot was empty again, Draco stood, stretching his arms.

“What did you think of your first stakeout?” Harry asked. 

Draco scowled at Harry. “Awful. Cold and boring as all hell. But we did get what we needed. Think they’ll lead us to Riddle?”

“Without a doubt,” Harry said. “Didn’t you hear them? ‘We need to return to the master.’”

“Oh. Right. Yes, I heard that.”

Harry laughed. “Come on. Let’s go into the car. Clearly this cold is affecting your brain.”

~~

The city of London was on their side, it seemed, using its never sleeping traffic to mask Harry’s car from being noticed by the quarry. 

They drove from the warehouse to central London, Harry checking once in a while the GPS that monitored Bellatrix’ progress.

“Aren’t we headed for the Gherkin?” Draco asked. He didn’t need a map or a navigational system to know he was in the City. He had spent half his childhood here, visiting his father’s headquarters near where the old London Stock Exchange had been before it moved to the new premises. His father at that time had sniffed at the decision, though not soon after, Lucius had opened a subsidiary office in Paternoster Square.

Draco wondered idly what had become of his father’s offices. Likely they had been re-let and redecorated, thus obliterating any remnants of its erstwhile occupant. Real estate in this city was a premium after all, and one didn’t waste it on sentimentality. 

“I wonder where their office will be,” Draco said thoughtfully. “Security will probably be tight, given all the multinationals headquartered here.”

“I have a list of shell companies that Riddle uses,” Harry said. “We can see if one of them is listed on the tenants here. And there are still people working. Look, you can even see the lights still on in some of the windows.”

“We can’t pretend like we’re working for one of the banks or whatever companies that are in there,” Draco said. “We’re not even in suits.”

“We’re not,” Harry said. “We’re going to disguise ourselves as the janitors. I have two stock uniforms in the carboot.”

“Oh.” That made more sense. “Are you sure it’ll work? I don’t think the security here are fools.” Or Draco hoped not. He probably invested in some of the companies in the Gherkin. It would be terrifying to think that they – and his money – would be so exposed to thieves and potential espionage. 

“No,” Harry said. He flashed a grin at Draco. “But they’ve never dealt with a master before.”

Draco almost rolled his eyes. “Yes. Well, I’m not a big expert in sneaking into places. I never had to; after all, I’m more used to people opening the door for me. Are you sure we can’t simply scale the building instead of sneaking in disguised as janitors?”

“We don’t know what level Riddle is at,” Harry pointed out. “Imagine if we scaled to the top and find out that the office is actually on the first floor.”

“The top is for tourists,” Draco said. “There’s a bar up there. Slightly overpriced and rather pretentious, but the view is amazing. After all, most people don’t really come here for the mixologists.” 

“You’ll have to show me once we’re finished with this whole business,” Harry said.

“It’s a date,” Draco said, and blushed at his choice of word. “That is, if we ever figure out what to do,” he added lamely. 

“I think my plan is the soundest,” Harry said. “We’ll go inside, and I’ll check to see where Riddle’s office is. And then we’ll wait until they finish their work and leave before we go inside and take the Shield and the Decoder.”

“That sounds rather simplistic to me,” Draco said dubiously. 

“The best plans are the simplest,” Harry intoned with mock solemnity and Draco had to chuckle.

“I suppose you’re right. It’s much simpler and easier, I suppose.” Still, Draco could not shake the sense of uneasy, that everything was too straightforward. 

He had to laugh at himself at that thought. This wasn’t some sort of Hollywood movie; Draco didn’t need to imagine himself in a sleek catsuit pulling up some cable on top of one of London’s most prestigious buildings. He’d probably have the police on him in seconds.

They changed into the jumpsuits Harry had ready in the back of the car. Draco examined himself critically, trying to affect how a janitor would appear.

“We’ll go in through the back,” Harry said, after speaking to someone on the phone. “Shacklebolt have someone hack into the security so that our entry won’t be noticed.” He looked at Draco. “Are you sure you want to be here? It’s against all regulations, and not only that, this is very dangerous.”

“Yes,” Draco said, with a snap of finality. “I have to see this through. And I’m already here, dressed and ready to go. You don’t expect me to wait in the car for you, do you?”

“Well, actually, I’d leave the keys in the ignition and you can drive back go Grimmauld Place,” Harry said. “But I suppose it’s better to keep you with me. Who knows if you’ll try to sneak in here after I go?”

“You don’t,” Draco said. “But I’m impressed that you know I’d probably do that.”

Harry scowled. “Well, now that we settled that, we should probably get moving. We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

It was eerie to be in a lobby of glass and marble at night. The distorted reflections in the sleek surfaces shimmered like some otherworldly portal, beckoning one to look into a grotesque version of himself. Noises echoed, twisted and elongated by the sheer acoustics and by the lack of the usual chatter. It was a place where a hushed whisper stretched long and loud until it lost its own identity.

Their footfalls were muffled but had a heart-stopping clarity that had Draco looking over his back very minute. It was too quiet, with the light from the streets hitting the floor at odd angles, creating sharp polygons of shadows that puddled ominously. 

“I’ll go check the register,” Harry whispered. “Go sit in one of those chairs or something,” he said, pointing to the aggressively modern and frankly uncomfortable couches near the exit.

Rolling his eyes, Draco settled against one of the pillars, out of sight should a passerby walked by the clear glass and peered inside. He waited, his entire body a twisted knot. There was no good explanation for why they would be here in the middle of the night. 

Harry came back. “They’re on the second to top floor. They have most of it to themselves, with the except of a few closets for janitorial purposes.”

“I told you we should have scaled the building.”

Chuckling softly, Harry motioned for Draco to follow him. “Come on. Let’s go before any of the security guard comes.”

“Are we taking the lift?” Draco asked, seeing that Harry was headed towards the bank of them tucked behind the reception. “Won’t it be like walking into a trap?”

“We’re going to take it to two floors down and walk up,” Harry explained. “It won’t be a surprise, since others are also working in the building right now. And I can guess the stairwell is probably less watched than the lift entrance.”

“Oh…. Alright.” Draco wasn’t particularly enthused by the idea of walking so much, though he supposed it was better than taking the stairs all the way up. 

They grabbed the cleaning supplies from the cupboard before entering the lift. 

It was a slow ride up; Draco watched the door, wary that it might slide open with an unsuspecting worker, walking in with bleary bloodshot eyes. Thankfully, no one did.

“You’re sure it’s safe to wander around here?” Draco asked again. He spoke in a whisper despite the fact that they were alone and that the hallway was cheerily lit. It added even more to the disconcerting unbelievability that they had broken into the Gherkin in the middle of the night. 

Harry nudged Draco. “The stairwell’s that way.” 

They left the cleaning supplies at the landing of the stairs. It was too much of an irritation to carry it two flights; Draco would have flatly refused and made Harry do it if Harry had insisted. 

They were careful to tiptoe up, despite Draco’s urge to take two at a time. Even so, it still rang with the brightness of a clarion. Draco swallowed. Harry had taken his gun out, tucked discreetly under his other arm as to shield it from view. 

They exited into a hallway rather like previous one. It was clean, almost antiseptically so, with bare walls and smooth, marblelike tiles. There was an empty foyer with a few chairs in the same modern style that had been present in the furniture at the lobby, but nothing else. 

“Do you have an extra?” Draco asked, indicating Harry’s gun.

Harry seemed surprised. “I always felt you had a strange reluctance to use them,” he said.

“Not when I’m about to walk into the den of the lion,” Draco said. He checked around nervously. “What are we going to do?” 

“We’ll check if the coast is clear,” Harry said, “and check all the rooms.”

“Really?” That seemed rather haphazard, and these were all just offices. “Are you sure? How long do you think we need to search for it? There could be dozens of hiding places.”

“If I know Riddle, he’d have them in the most prominent place possible,” Harry said. “On display, to show his power and dare others to take it.”

“That … doesn’t sound very intelligent.”

“Every man has his own foibles,” Harry said with a bitter smile. “Riddle’s is that he enjoys flaunting his power to his inferiors. And he considers everyone his inferiors.”

“Not that I expect many visitors would be coming here, but wouldn’t it be odd to display two stolen artifacts in the middle of the hall?”

“Would you have known what the Decoder and the Shield are if you haven’t been involved with this business from the beginning?” Harry asked. “I would expect most laymen wouldn’t. And these visitors – I doubt most of them are here for any kind of business that would survive the scrutiny of the authorities.”

“I see your point.” Draco ran his hand through his hair. “Then where do you propose we go first?”

“How about that?” Harry pointed at the room just beyond the foyer. “We can make our way in starting there. The cameras are hacked, but we still need to be careful. There might be guards in there.”

They moved in, Draco conscious of what Harry said. 

Then they saw it. Both the Decoder and the Shield were in a glass case like what jewelers used to showcase their diamonds. There was a little spotlight in the case that casted the artifacts with flattering shadows. Gold glittered softly, a strange warmth in the cool, almost blank, aesthetic of the room. 

Draco reached out to touch it.

“Don’t.” Harry grabbed Draco’s arm. He tilted his chin at the corner of the display case. There was a small red light that pulsed, slow and steadily, its pace almost in tune to some mysterious beat. “And I’m going to bet my life savings that the glass is reinforced.”

“It is.”

They spun around, Harry’s gun raised –

“There’s no point in resistance,” said a blast of frigid air. “You’re surrounded by my men. I hope you’re not so foolhardy as to risk your life and that of Mr. Malfoy in demonstrations of futility.” 

It was that man Draco had glimpsed from a distance in the helicopter. The man was bald, with a shiny plate of a head that seemed to gleam with its own source of illumination in the dim room. He had flat, almost non-existent nostrils, but not like how sometimes those who had been in a fight did, flat and squashed. These were like slits. 

Despite this, Draco could tell the man had been handsome once. The evidence on his face suggested perhaps a botched operation in the past. It was a discordant sight, to have the contrast so in prominence.

Even more pressing than the man’s appearance was behind him, with guns pointed straight at Draco and Harry. 

“I assumed you met my staff,” the man continued, as though he was in the midst of a guided tour for the office. “Bellatrix, Dolohov, and Wormtail. I am Tom Riddle, though you may know me by my call sign Voldemort. Welcome to my office.”

After occupying so prominent a space in all the events that had transpired, Riddle didn’t disappoint in person. He exuded a sense of menace that pressed like a blade’s edge on skin, cold steel against soft flesh. 

“Do you want some refreshments?” Riddle continued. “Coffee? Tea? Something stronger? It’s not particularly orthodox to have visitors in the middle of the night, but thankfully, we were in.”

Had this been all a trap? Had they foolhardily fallen in a hole that a child could have seen? 

“Backup is on the way,” Harry said levelly. “I think it would be foolish of you to think you’re the one in control here.”

Draco stilled his face, hoping that the bluff would work. It wasn’t out of the question; Harry had let Shacklebolt know that they were in the office, and Shacklebolt had helped with the cameras. However, from the way Harry phrased it, it was as if they had men at the corner waiting for the signal to break in. 

Riddle shook his head. “There are no backup. Besides, even if they are, they wouldn’t come in without your signal. And you won’t be able to send that in any case.” He smiled, prominent teeth against thin lips. 

Draco backed up, touching the display case. There was a sudden blare of noise. It quickly faded into a rapid beeping.

“This is what alerted us,” Riddle said, teeth bared even wider. “This entire room has sensors watching it. We knew you would come eventually. We just didn’t expect it to be that soon.”

At Draco’s face, Riddle laughed. “Don’t look so anguished at yourself. It isn’t typical that one has secondary security systems installed in a high-end office building like this one. After all, I myself was conflicted about it. We pay such a premium to be in this space and look at their poor security!” Riddle made a moue of mock disappointment that Draco wanted to slap.

“How can you be certain that backup won’t have a set time by which they would come in?” Harry asked, ignoring what Riddle had revealed. 

“I don’t,” acknowledged Riddle. “But then, by that point it won’t matter anymore. You came just in time. We were going to seek you out, you know. You specifically, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I thought you had discarded the idea of using the Malfoy boy,” Bellatrix said.

“I had,” Riddle said. “But the delay would have taken too long to find another expert to decipher the Decoder. Wormtail,” here he gave Wormtail a glare, “failed to find any other who would be able to assist us in breaking the encryption.”

Wormtail quailed at his master’s disapproval. “I’m working as fast as I can, master. If you would just give me more time –”

“No.” The word was uttered with cutting finality. Wormtail fell silent.  
“Mr. Malfoy is here already. It is an act of providence that he was sent to us. We can begin our preparations tonight.” Riddle looked at Draco. “Any equipment you need will be provided to you. You would be surprised at how well-stocked we are.”

“I’m not going to help you,” Draco said, trying to summon up courage and meet Riddle’s eyes. “I don’t understand why you even bother asking. I’m not my father.”

“No,” Riddle said. “You’re not. That’s why, ironically, I believe I could trust you. You’re not as mercenary as he is, and therefore, we have much greater leverage over you.”

“Don’t talk about my father like that,” Draco snapped. 

“My, my. Aren’t we touchy? How about a deal? If you help us, we won’t kill Mr. Potter other there. I know you have a special place in your heart for him.”

Draco froze. 

“Don’t listen to them,” Harry said quietly. “My life isn’t worth giving in to Riddle. If he gets what he wants, then it’s not just me that will suffer. A lot of others will. Millions.”

Riddle laughed, a hair-raising, high-pitched sound that clawed at Draco’s ears. “You hold me in such high opinion, Potter. I’m almost flattered.” He turned to Bellatrix. “Perhaps you can demonstrate to Draco here an example of what would happen to Potter if Draco doesn’t comply.”

Bellatrix grinned, and Draco saw the mad woman in those eyes. “With pleasure.” 

She stalked towards Harry, the click of her heels echoing just above the beep of the security system that was triggered. Harry raised his gun, his body rejecting what would be an inevitable outcome of the match. 

Bellatrix raised her own to match Harry’s movement –

“No!” Draco yelled. 

They all turned to look at him.

“No,” he repeated, more softly. “I’ll help you. If you give me your word that no one will get hurt.”

Bellatrix looked reluctant to lower her gun. Harry, too, was furious, though Draco couldn’t tell who the anger was directed at. 

“That’s wise of you,” Riddle said. “Now come with me, both of you. We’ll go into the lab where you’ll have the equipment to do your work, Draco. Bella, Dolohov, bring Potter with you. Make sure he doesn’t try anything foolish.”

Harry only glanced at Draco. His face was devoid of emotions, a startling change to what was usually so expressive.

“Wait.” Draco stopped moving. Riddle paused from opening the display.

“What?” There was a touch of impatience. “What other conditions have you thought of now?”

“I want to talk to Harry,” Draco said. Five pairs of eyes stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Alone.”

Riddle nodded, stopping Dolohov and Bellatrix from objecting. Wormtail’s brow was furrowed, like he was unable to fathom such a request at this particular time. And indeed, Draco was surprised at himself for having demanded it. 

He wasn’t just about to let matters rest. It was too easy to let Riddle just win like this. Draco might not be able to think of any way to resist Riddle’s demand by himself, but maybe with Harry, it would be possible for a solution to present itself.

“We’ll leave you in here, then,” Riddle said, cradling the Shield and Decoder as one would a child. They called to Draco, and for a second, Draco had an image of himself tackling and wrestling them away from Riddle. 

It was a foolish idea, one that would get them killed as soon as he moved. Riddle seemed to read Draco’s thoughts, walking past him with a little smile. 

“The audio will be off, so we won’t eavesdrop,” Riddle said, with the confidence of someone convinced he had already won. “There’s only one entrance to this room, by the way. Bella and Dolohov will be guarding it, so there’s no need to be foolish.” He called to Wormtail. “Let us go prepare the lab for Draco’s inspection.”

And just as quickly, Draco and Harry were alone. They had frisked Harry and Draco, Harry having stilled into involuntary submission, and Draco too distracted by Harry to pay much attention. They had taken away Harry’s gun and both their cellphones before exiting.

“Harry, look at me,” said Draco, when Harry continued to avoid Draco’s eyes.

“You’re making a mistake,” Harry said in a low voice. 

“It’s the only way I can think of.” Draco was frustrated that Harry couldn’t see the value of what Draco was doing – or even the value in saving Harry’s own life. Delay was all that they had; they were outgunned and outmanned, and there was no way to summon reinforcements. 

“You’re making a deal with the devil. And you know what happened to Faust.”

“Goethe was never my favorite,” Draco said. “And like I said, I’m only delaying. We can think of something. We have to. I’m not just going to surrender without a fight. But I’m also not willing to needlessly sacrifice myself when there still might be a way.”

There was silence.

“This was why I left,” Harry said, still in that low voice. “That day at the Burrow. This was why I left.”

Draco stopped, his mind full of plots and stratagems – frozen. He wasn’t sure if he had heard right.

“I was already being drawn into the hunt for Riddle,” Harry said. “That night, it was the night when they had found him, exposed, alone, without his guards. He was somewhere close by to the Burrow, irony of ironies. And I left – well, because I wanted to be the one to take care of him myself.”

“But – what happened?” 

“It failed, obviously,” Harry said, with a mimicry of a smile. “And I was wounded in that attempt. It had been close, but I was overconfident, and I had gotten hurt almost as badly as Riddle was.” 

“Why didn’t you contact me after?” Why Harry was bringing up all this again? Was it to punish Draco in some way, or to emphasize how untrustworthy and how untenable this deal with Riddle was? Draco knew all this.

“I didn’t want you to get caught up in this,” Harry said, and he had dropped to a whisper now. “I didn’t want to see you doing what you’ve just done. I didn’t want to be the cause of why you have to sacrifice your principles or put yourself in danger just for me.”

“Is that why you cut off all contact with me?”

“When I heard about your father being involved – I hadn’t known. I thought – I thought –”

“What?” Draco was angry now. “You thought that I was part of this too? Part of Riddle’s little gang?”

“I wasn’t sure what I was thinking. I was so confused: angry and hurt that you didn’t tell me anything and scared that if you didn’t know, that I would somehow – endanger you.”

Draco stared at Harry. His tongue was knotted in his mouth, heavy and useless. 

He was angry. Both at Harry and at the circumstances which had placed them at odds. It was a position which could have been resolved by a simple ten-minute chat, and yet it had dragged on for five long years.

Draco took a deep breath. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care about that anymore. It’s too long ago, and we’re going to have to work on how we communicate, but I don’t blame you. And I understand why you did what you did. I’m still angry, but – but --” Draco broke off, too embarrassed to continue. 

Harry knew exactly what Draco was trying to say. He took Draco’s hands in his own. They were warm compared to Draco’s; roughened and callused, they had a strength in them that grounded Draco, anchoring him through the tempest of fear and hurt.

A clarity came over him, one that told him he had made the right decision. Draco would see this through, in his own way.

Dolohov’s head poked through. “You’re dawdling,” he said with a cold sneer. “Better hurry up. It’s pointless to delay the inevitable.”

Draco returned his look coolly. “We’re coming.”

Dolohov gave an ironic little bow. “After you.” It didn’t escape Draco’s attention that Dolohov tightened his grip on the gun. 

They moved out, Dolohov trailing after them with a wary distance.

“Turn right,” he said sharply when they came to a junction in the hallway. “Be quick about it. The master doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Draco ignored him.

“That door right there. Hurry up.” 

Draco entered into a facility that would make an archaeologist with the most well-equipped lab weep with envy. An enormous table took up most of the space, filled with microscopes and books. There was a sieve shaker and small muffle furnace used for burning off organic compounds. Two centrifuges and weights were on the sides of the table.

There was a sink to one end of the room; next to it are toothbrushes, picks, pipe cleaners, and other accoutrements which might come in handy. 

All those paled in importance to the objects at the center of the room. The Shield and the Decoder laid side by side, placed casually, almost like they had been tossed aside by a bored child. 

Draco made his way instinctively to them. He reached out his hand to touch.

“They are quite beautiful to look at, aren’t they?” Riddle asked, emerging from the shadows. “The ancients were quite skilled at creating works of art.”

“You did a good job cleaning this,” Draco said, professional interest overcoming his terror as he bent to examine the Decoder. “Was everything in working order?”

“You tell me, Mr. Malfoy,” Riddle said. “You’re the expert.”

It certainly looked it. The gears were cleared of the barnacles and rust that had encrusted the device when Draco last saw it, and the metal fairly shone, like it had been polished. It was still, however, the clockwork-like parts of the Decoder unmoving. 

“What do you expect me to do?” Draco asked. “Get it to move?”

“It moves by a crank to the side,” Riddle said, gesturing. “Our analysis have shown that much. We haven’t tried it yet, not certain of what would happen should it move.”

Draco saw it. He put on a pair of gloves he found and picked up the Decoder. It was lighter than he remembered, until Draco realized all the weight from the seaweed and extraneous detritus had been cleaned off. 

Locating the crank Riddle mentioned, Draco stared at it. He tried to dredge up the information Rosier had postulated or discovered. Its calculations were related to various astronomical signs and phenomena. Would he need to ‘reset’ the Decoder? Draco wasn’t sure he knew how. He was an archaeologist and historian, not an engineer. He said so to Riddle.

Riddle shook his head. “I think you’re stalling, Mr. Malfoy. You don’t want me to get angry, do you? Mr. Potter here is a very fragile.”

Harry glared at Dolohov, daring him to go any closer.

“If you hurt him in any way, then the deal is off,” Draco said. “I’ll smash this right before your eyes.” He raised the Decoder high.

Riddle was unperturbed. “I suppose compromise is in order for both of us. Very well; I will relinquish from making any more threats against Potter while you finish the task you had agreed to do.”

Draco took a deep breath, pushing the awareness of the others to the back of his mind. Pure interest in the artifacts took over his mind; there were little symbols on the diameter of the Decoder that Draco took to be esoteric astronomical references. 

He was not sure exactly what they meant. The Greek inscriptions were clear enough; Draco had been reviewing his knowledge of the language ever since they had returned from the Aegean. Rosier had said that the outermost ring dial matched zodiac signs, but those were rubbed off. There was only the faintest of lines that indicated they had even been there to begin with; silvery traces that might have been mistaken for glimmers of light from outside the window. 

Draco pulled up a chair and took a handlamp from the side. The etched symbols were definitely not a figment of his imagination. He relaxed slightly in his chair. 

“Can someone get me a pencil and paper?” he called out. 

Silence.

“Wormtail, the man said he needs pencil and paper,” Riddle said with a touch of impatience. “Don’t just stand there looking like an idiot.” 

Wormtail complied, his awkward shuffle conveying sulkiness. He dropped them on the table next to Draco without meeting Draco’s eyes. 

“Thank you.” Draco took up the paper, placing it lightly over the Decoder. He began to trace over the imprints with the pencil. 

He almost had it. It was meditative, to work like this: puzzling over a mystery that required all of Draco’s intelligence. Solving it almost divorced himself from the reality of why he was doing it, why he was here. Draco could almost – almost – forget that there were guns pointed at his back. Literally.

He held up the Decoder in the air, the sketch in his other hand.

“I think I figured out,” Draco said. “What configuration to reset the Decoder at least.”

“Are you sure?” Riddle appraised Draco thoughtfully.

“In the short time I’ve been given, as reasonably sure as I can be,” Draco responded irritably. “I worked off the assumption that the Decoder represented the ancient Macedonian calendar, given that the supposed commissioner of the piece, Aristotle, intended this to be a gift to Alexander the Great. The inner ring here,” Draco pointed, “is meant to represent the zodiac. They’re very similar to the modern day ones we use, actually. It became more clear that was the case after I had traced it out. And then –”

“Alright,” Riddle interrupted. “You proved your point. I don’t need a thesis. I just need to know if you’re reasonably sure.”

Draco looked Riddle in the eye. “I am.”

“Then let us begin,” Riddle said with a soft smile. 

He took the Decoder from Draco’s hands, his fingers grazing Draco for the barest second. Draco suppressed a shudder – they were colder than stone, and just as unyielding. 

He remained standing where he was. The others crowded in, even Harry. Draco didn’t miss that there was two guns that were cocked. 

Riddle worked the crank. Creaking machinery began moving, in a soft scraping sound similar to rats scurrying in the attic. Draco rebuked of himself for being so disrespectful to a thousand-year-old artifact. 

The Decoder turned, the wheels grinding to a start. As the movements quickened, the noise from the Decoder died down. The parts were surprisingly smooth; Draco wasn’t sure if Riddle had oiled them or if it was an intrinsic part of the craftsmanship. He had a sudden desire to take the Decoder back and re-examine it. 

“What do I do now?” Riddle asked.

“Hold it over the Shield,” Draco said, recalling parts of Rosier’s paper. “And then you shine a light through it so that as the Decoder moved, it would shed light – literally – on the pictographs of the Shield that would unlock it.”

“What kind of light?” Riddle asked. 

“I would imagine any light would do,” Draco said. “I don’t think it would make a difference.”

Riddle held out his hand. Draco handed over the handlamp. He was excited, as much as Riddle was. 

Riddle’s eyes flared with excitement as he shone the light upon the Decoder. It lit up, reflecting it back, looking like the miniature imitation of the Millennium Eye with its wheels spinning, catching the gleam. 

It became silent, with only the light breathing from those watching able to be heard.  
Shadows played on the Shield, like a figures dancing across the surface. The illumination from the lamp fell at odd angles on the grooves and dips of the metal. The engraved scenes sprang to life. The sun and the moon at the center were almost moving, like a time-lapse of the dawn.

If he closed his eyes, Draco might have mistaken himself to be on the field of battle, with the roar of the warriors and the scream of the swords. Then, as quickly, that sensation disappeared, replaced by an equally vivid one of revelry, of oboes and harps and the unmistakable murmurs of intimacy, followed by the rustling of crops and the baying of sheep. 

It was odd, to experience that while Draco was standing in an ordinary room – albeit one with well-furnished equipment – and it was uncomfortable, like crossing his eyes. Riddle was fixated, his face enraptured by excitement and eagerness that bordered on the obscene. 

No one else made any movement. Dolohov and Bellatrix were by Harry’s side; whether they were keeping a watchful eye, Draco was not able to tell. Wormtail waited off at the corner, craning his neck almost comically to see what was happening. 

For a while there was nothing, only the faint clicks of the gears and the shallow breaths of anticipation. 

Then light burst. 

The Shield glowed, rivaling the lamp. Not in its entirety; only specific segments of the Shield did. It was the sun, the moon, the Sagittarius, and the farmer. It was some sort of luminescent coating or quality of the metalwork that allowed them to do so. Draco wanted to lean in to see what exactly was at work, but the not unformidable presence of Riddle next to him made Draco reconsider. 

“I take it that is the code?” Riddle’s voice shook Draco out of the reverie.

Dry-throated, Draco nodded.

“What is the order?” Riddle asked.

“It should be from centermost out,” Draco said. “It’s clear that the center represents Heaven, form which wisdom, and the gift to understand wisdom emanates. The zodiac is supposed to be the way that the gods show humans how to behave. Aristotle, coincidentally or not, was supposed to be one of the pioneers of combining his school of philosophy with astrology. To the Greeks, who got a lot of their concepts from the Egyptians and the Mesopotamians, the Earth and the Heaven were connected, and there was a link between our spiritual, psychological and physical experience.”

“Thank you, Draco, for that most helpful explanation,” Riddle said with heavy irony. “A simple answer would have sufficed.”  
Draco would have rolled his eyes, even in the current circumstance, but he had the feeling that his minions might not appreciate that.

It didn’t matter; Riddle pressed the etchings in quick succession. 

There was stillness. 

They watched. Nothing seemed happen. No startling bursts of light any further, no sound, no screech. Just five people staring at one man with two very old objects in his hands.

The clock ticked. Time stopped. No one moved. 

Then – an awful keening cry.

Riddle clutched his eyes, screaming. It was an awful sound, one full of pain and fury and despair that had everyone in the room grabbing their ears.

Harry moved, elbowing Bellatrix in the stomach, his other hand snatching the gun out of Dolohov’s hand.

Draco jumped away from Riddle, who careened blindly, the Shield and Decoder and lamp clattering to the floor. The lamp bulb shattered, pitching the room into black. It made the noises of struggle more wrenching to listen to, but Draco forced himself to ignore them – he kicked out at the antiques, sending them skidding across the room. At the same time, he aimed a blow at Riddle – no need to fumble blindly in the dark, Riddle’s hoarse agonized voice was a beckon. A thud and Riddle stopped, the wail cutting off from as Riddle fell unconscious. 

Draco only had the tiny slips of brightness through the window to guide him in the dim room. He wasn’t sure what was happening, where any of the others were, but he knew he had to get the Shield and Decoder. 

The Shield and Decoder were not far away. Draco hadn’t kicked hard enough. He picked them up — and ran. 

He went out of the room into the hallway, stopping when he reached a reasonably lit area. 

He was panting. Draco hadn’t realized he was panting. He had not felt the exertion all throughout that whirlwind. 

What had happened? Draco just saw Riddle holding the Shield, on the cusp of victory. 

And then he went mad. 

There was no other way to describe it; that banshee’s howl, that stumble of pain — something had clearly gone wrong. 

Draco wasn’t sure why. He was reasonably certain that his assessment of how the Shield worked and his resetting the Decoder was accurate. There was still space for doubt but Draco had done the analysis to the best of his ability — his integrity would not have permitted otherwise. Even now, it rankled that might’ve made a mistake. 

Had he made a mistake? It was possible, given the circumstances Draco had worked under. The Shield was quiescent now in his hands, nothing out of the ordinary. It was simply a very old antique. 

The Decoder, too, had stopped ticking. It was light in Draco’s hands compared with the Shield. The energy that had kept the gears moving had ceased, and it was back to being a complicated piece of machinery.

Setting both of them down with the reverence one treated temple offerings in the corner of the hallway, Draco then went to where the emergency supplies were kept in the closet. 

He gritted his teeth – and broke the glass.

A howl of alarm broke the relative stillness. Ignoring the bleeding cuts from the glass, Draco grabbed the flashlight, bypassing the extinguisher. He debated for a moment whether to take it. If need be, it could be used as a blunt, one-time weapon in a fight.

Draco discarded that idea. He wasn’t sure how to operate it, and in any case, it was too heavy to be wielded properly.

Bracing himself, he ran back to the lab. He met Wormtail creeping out the door, looking furtively behind him. There was the unmistakable sound of exchanging gunfire. 

Draco didn’t hesitate. He lashed out, his heel striking hard at Wormtail’s chest. 

The man made a little “oof” sound as he hit the wall. His lids fluttered and the whites of his eyes showed. He was out cold. 

Taking a deep breath, Draco poked his head into the door. 

Dolohov was already passed out on the floor, with what was going to be a nasty gash on his head. In the corner, Draco saw that Riddle, too, remained unconscious. The two remaining combatants, Harry and Bellatrix, were each behind makeshift barricades: Harry having used the long table in the center and Bellatrix huddling behind one of the smaller desks. 

“Get out of here!” Harry shouted. He ducked as Bellatrix released a hail of bullets that studded the table. None of them penetrated but it was close. 

“Here to save your lover boy, Malfoy?” Bellatrix taunted in a sing-song voice. “I’m not sure who I want to get first, you or Potter. I wonder if I can try both.”

“I’m sure you heard the alarm,” Draco said in a calm voice. “By now, backup will be on the way. You’re outnumbered right now too. It’s two against one.” 

Right on cue, the heavy thud of combat boots and the buzz of radio registered in Draco’s hearing. He heard the elevator open distantly, as well as the door bang against the wall.

Draco wasn’t sure who these newcomers were. They could be police, firefighters, or Shacklebolt’s men. Draco hoped fervently it was the last. Shacklebolt was monitoring the situation from wherever he was, and an alarm in the middle of the night could be construed as a signal for reinforcements. 

In any case, it didn’t really matter. It was clear to Bellatrix that her choices were limited. It was the end for her. Her master was lying on the floor, her comrades were lying on the floor, and while she only faced one opponent with equal firepower so far, she would soon be met with more.

“Do you really think you’ll be able to hold me?” she asked, her voice silky. Draco recognized this – she was playing for time, the same tactic he had used earlier. No doubt she was trying to distract Harry too, so that in the off-chance he fell for it, she could escape.

Draco stepped into the room. He made certain to keep the light from the flashlight pointing out.

“Draco, get out of here.” Harry’s voice was strained.

“Yes, Draco, get out of here,” Bellatrix cooed. Draco’s eyes fixed on the barrel that was leveled at him. “You don’t want to see little Harry all sad, do you?”

“I’m telling you that you should give up,” Draco said, ignoring his racing heart, trying not to stare at Bellatrix’s gun. “I don’t want to see any one get hurt here.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You have got to be joking, boy.” Her mocking tone was gone, replaced by anger that Draco would dare lecture her on anything. “You really think you can do anything? You?” She raised, ready to fire –

Draco flung the flashlight at Bellatrix, throwing it like a javelin. It was much too to travel like one, the head going askew as it arced through the air. What did matter, though was that the glare flashed directly in her eyes, as Draco intended.  
She blocked her eyes with a grunt, her grip on the gun slipping.

Draco charged at her, ramming his shoulder, sending the desk she was behind an inch back. The force knocked the gun out of her hand. 

In that instant, Harry jumped out of where he had been hunkering, running towards them. His feet sending her gun out of the room.

Draco grabbed his shoulder. It burned with the awkward throb of having been slammed into solid wood reinforced with steel. Thankfully, the desk hadn’t been too large, or otherwise Draco would be in more agony.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Harry said as he stand over Bellatrix. He looked at Draco with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Draco said. He looked at the door. It was blocked by uniformed men. “Do you think you can handle her? I’ll go talk to those officers.”

~~

The uniformed men who had arrived were unfortunately not Shacklebolt’s men, but armed response from the Metropolitan Police, who had arrived when summoned by a confused porter telling them the security system “was buggered.”

They had taken one look at the scene and would have clapped both Draco and Harry in handcuffs if Harry had not casually mentioned that he was holding a member of one of the most wanted criminal groups in Europe under gunpoint. Their leader had shown more sense than most police Draco encountered, and acquiesced to calling a number that Harry had provided. In the meanwhile, the other men took away the unconscious Dolohov, Wormtail, and Riddle. 

Shacklebolt arrived a few minutes later. In contrast to the heavy body armor of the police, he and Dawlish both came in suits that looked to be well-ironed despite it being almost the crack of dawn. They had exchanged a few hushed words with the leader that Draco, however hard he strained, missed.

Someone – a young man under the visored helmet by the looks of it – had relieved Harry of the duty to watch over Bellatrix. 

Harry came over to Draco.

“What you did back there was the single most idiotic thing I have ever seen you do,” Harry said. “And that includes the entire time I’ve known you, including that time you provoked that falcon Buckbeak to attack back at school.”  
“Surely it wasn’t bad as that,” Draco said. He hid a glimmer of a smile. “I do rank that incident as one of the top three most idiotic things I have ever done.”

Harry squinted at Draco. Whether it was from anger or exasperation, Draco wasn’t able to distinguish. He chose to believe it was the latter.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Draco said. “It was stupid, but it was the only way I could think of to help. I didn’t have a gun, and I knew I couldn’t take her out by challenging her to a duel or anything.”

Harry chuckled. “No. That would be even more stupid. You know she’s an expert in unarmed combat, right? I’ve seen her take out a man twice her size without blinking.”

Draco shuddered. “Well, size isn’t everything.”

“Oi!” Dawlish called. “If you two are done being lovey-dovey over there, we need to discuss what’s going to happen next.”

Draco scowled. He had almost forgotten about Dawlish entirely until the man showed up tonight. Apparently, Dawlish was responsible for monitoring the Secret Service’s worldwide activities and thus had been the first to receive the call.

“You two are possibly the worst agents I have ever encountered,” Dawlish told them. “Breaking into one of the most prestigious buildings in London in the middle of the night and getting the police to arrest you? What part of secret do you not understand?”

“We weren’t arrested,” Draco pointed out. “In fact, it was more the opposite. We were conducting a citizen’s arrest of Riddle and his group.”

“They did do that,” Shacklebolt agreed, hiding his amusement. “However,” he looked at Harry sternly, “I thought I had told you to be more careful about involving civilians. You should have never brought Draco along to this.”

“It was my idea,” Draco said. “I was the one that decided breaking into one of the most prestigious building was a good idea.”

“That’s one of the most idiotic ideas I have ever seen in long time.” Dawlish glared at Draco. 

“So I’ve been told already,” Draco agreed. Harry turned his laughter into a quick cough at Dawlish’s face turning puce.

“I can have you arrested for this, you know,” Dawlish said, lips pressed tight. “Trespassing is a crime. And you, Potter, you’ll be facing an internal review –”

“Let’s not get too hasty,” Shacklebolt interrupted. “After all, they did help. And we can’t have the public getting wind of this, can we? Or otherwise we wouldn’t be called the Secret Service. These two have managed to take down one of our top targets, and all in a night’s work.”

“We also recovered the Shield and the Decoder,” Draco said. “I put them in the hallway.”

“Ah … yes. I noticed that. Don’t worry about them; our men have already taken them. We’ll take good care of them, I promise.”

“What’s going to happen to them?” 

“We’re going to study them,” Shacklebolt said. “And maybe you’ll be interested in the effort.”

Draco nodded. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was beginning to feel the weight of exhaustion. He could see rosy fingered dawn creeping across the skyline, touching London’s skyscrapers. 

“We can discuss this all at a later time,” Shacklebolt said, seeing Draco stifle a yawn. “You must be tired after all this. I’ll have someone take you to rest.”

“I’ll go,” Harry volunteered.

Dawlish seemed like he wasn’t finished with his tirade, but he had no other choice than to accept them leaving.

“You can drive, right?” Draco asked, finally unleashing an enormous yawn. They emerged from the exit, seeing the pavement warm up with the sun’s rays.

“Yes, I can. I’ll wake you when we get back.”

“Wonderful.”

“Draco ….” Harry’s voice was hesitant. 

Draco paused in the act of buckling his seat belt. “If you want to change your mind, we can take a cab. I don’t have money on me, so you’re going to have to pay this time.”

Harry let out a soft chuckle. “No, it’s not that.”

Draco blinked at Harry with sleepy eyes. “Then what is it? What’s the matter? Is this something that can’t wait?”

“Well,” Harry said, “I just wanted to say thank you. For running in the way you did, even though it was idiotic. And thank you for being here, for being a part of this.”  
“Oh.” Draco didn’t know how to respond to that. “You’re welcome.” He felt this was one of those moments he needed to be more expressive than that, but his foggy mind failed him.

So he did the first thing that came to him. He kissed Harry.

“Hopefully that’ll keep you awake until we get back home,” Draco said.

Harry grinned. “I think that will.”

They drove into the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I got tired of this story at the end, so it does feel a bit rushed to me. It was still pretty fun to write, though, and my favorite part especially was researching all the historical tidbits that I needed to write this. 
> 
> The Shield of Achilles was mentioned in the Iliad, and one of the theory for the Antikythera Mechanism's origin is that it was based on an earlier prototype, perhaps from the island of Rhodes. There's been a lot of articles and even documentaries made on the Antikythera Mechanism. If you want to see the device in person, most of the fragments are held in the National Archaeology Museum in Athens, Greece.


End file.
